


The One Way Mirror

by Dog in the Manger (anabelle)



Series: Mirror [2]
Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabelle/pseuds/Dog%20in%20the%20Manger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jinx was still on the wagon, Brandi at large. Marshall was building a life together with Abigail. And Mary felt she was watching life from the sidelines. If her job was her entire life, she decided, there should be more of it.</p><p>Sometimes it's hard to know which bridge to cross and which to burn. Mary left ABQ so Marshall could move on with his life. But it did not work out quite as she planned.</p><p>Fallout from Season 4 Finale.  Written before Season 5 aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Way Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> A one-way mirror, also known as a two-way mirror, one-way glass, or two-way glass is a mirror which is partially reflective and partially transparent. When one side of the mirror is brightly lit and the other is dark, it allows viewing from the darkened side but not vice versa.
> 
> A two-way mirror is typically used as an apparently normal mirror in a brightly lit room, with a much darker room on the other side. People on the brightly lit side see their own reflection—it looks like a normal mirror. People on the dark side see through it—it looks like a transparent window. The light from the bright room reflected from the mirror back into the room itself is much greater than the light transmitted from the dark room, overwhelming the small amount of light transmitted from the dark to the bright room; conversely, the light reflected back into the dark side is overwhelmed by the light transmitted from the bright side. This allows a viewer in the dark side to observe the bright room covertly.
> 
> (From Wikipedia)
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I do not own In Plain Sight or its characters. I just borrow them for entertainment, not for profit. I do not own or endorse any brands, events or establishments used in any of my stories. The plot and characters are fictional and do not include any actual person or event. The opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the author's personal views.

One. Someone to take the Blame  
  
  
Abigail pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. She slowly got out of the car, absorbed in thought. The happy hour with Delia and a few other female law enforcement officers did not turn out as happily as she had hoped. In fact, instead of providing a distraction, it had exacerbated the tension she had been grappling with since her fiancé's partner left Albuquerque six months ago.  
  
Initially, the news of Mary's transfer across the country thrilled Abigail. She would no longer have to compete for her fiancé's time with his partner. She assumed there would be no more random phone calls, dinners for three where she felt like a third wheel, and definitely no more middle of the night emergencies for Marshall to handle. Abigail had failed to realize before it was too late that it was much harder to deal with Marshall's memories of Mary than her presence in their life. Had she known how her life would change after Mary's departure, Abigail would have pleaded the other woman to reconsider reassignment.  
  
Abigail walked inside their dark house. Marshall's out of town assignments had gotten more frequent in the last six months. In the beginning, she viewed his trips as a welcome reprieve, a time to catch up with her girlfriends and for the spa appointments Marshall detested. Now Abigail could not help but question if Marshall sought out these assignments to avoid spending time with her. She vaguely remembered Marshall mentioning that his caseload had lightened since Mary left. It sounded as if Stan was having trouble finding a suitable replacement for Marshal Shannon.  
  
Abigail knew Mary was a stellar Marshal but could not understand why it would be difficult to find someone just as qualified. When she cornered Delia earlier that evening, the bright expression the Inspector usually wore suddenly darkened. She refused to give Abigail any details, but let it slip that the office was simply not the same without two senior inspectors bickering day in and day out. Everything had changed and not in a good way, Delia told her solemnly. Albuquerque was no longer the best office in the region. An hour later, when Abigail helped the tipsy Inspector into the cab before getting into her own car, she wished she did not hear the other woman admitting to missing the brassy Marshal because Abigail realized she shared the sentiment, albeit for different reasons. The man Abigail had agreed to marry was gone; it was as though Mary took a part of him with her to D.C.  
  
Recalling a few incidents when she blamed Mary for getting between her and Marshall, Abigail wondered if she had deluded herself into thinking Marshall could commit to her long term. There were signs their relationship was not as picture perfect as she pretended it was. Abigail thought she understood when Marshall chose to shield his pregnant partner from the sniper fire while she was in the same room and apparently nothing, but an afterthought. She feigned understanding when he chose to spend every waking moment at the hospital with Mary and catered to her every whim afterward. Abigail realized it could not have been easy for Mary to mourn the death of the child. She hid her resentment whenever Marshall told her that his partner needed him. She thought it was worth something that at the end of the day he came home to her. Most nights, she corrected herself bitterly.  
  
Abigail turned on the lights in the empty kitchen and opened the liquor cabinet, automatically assessing the number of scotch bottles with varying levels of remaining alcohol. She was used to keeping quality spirits at the house reserved for serving as an aperitif before dinner parties. Abigail preferred red wine to hard liquor. Lately, she could hardly remember a night when Marshall did not knock back two fingers before going to bed unless he had an early morning assignment. She picked up the bottle of cabernet from the wine rack. Abigail had stopped drinking at the bar after Delia's confession, but needed another glass to figure out what to do when Marshall returned from his trip.  
  
She was torn: she wanted to confront her fiancé about his withdrawal, moodiness and reluctance to move forward with their wedding plans, but at the same time, she was uncertain if she was prepared to hear what he had to say. They were nearing an eight months mark in their engagement and still had not set the date. Instead, they were drifting further and further apart. Marshall was a very private person to begin with, but after Mary's departure he retreated into an impenetrable shell. Abigail tried coaxing him into many a conversation, but to no avail. Trying to break through a brick wall with her bare hands would have worked just as well.  
  
Abigail flipped on the television, waiting for Marshall's nightly call. She remembered when he called from the road just to hear her voice, missing her. Lately it felt as though it was nothing more than a part of their routine. He could not share any details about his day, just that he was fine and wished her a good night. She remembered how cherished she felt when they had started dating and realized the feeling had long left their relationship. They were going through the motions, comfortable enough in their cohabitation to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room. Their once steamy romance was fading before her eyes. Marshall was with her, but at the same time was absent. She felt hollow and abandoned despite not having to share Marshall with anyone. Their relationship had been reduced to a habit.  
  
Abigail finished her wine and turned off the set. There was nothing on she cared to watch and it was getting late. She had an early day tomorrow. Walking into their bedroom, she tossed the phone onto the nightstand, shoved her badge and gun into the drawer and flopped on the bed. For the first time in months, Marshall did not call.  
  
  
Two. Meanwhile in Chicago  
  
  
Dershowitz traded his shield for a Marshal's star badge when he was assigned to the Operation Chicago Blues. His reputation for being a loner preceded him into the Marshals Service and his Chief, Marshal Brooks, did not saddle him a permanent partner right away. The unique nature of the assignment allowed him that flexibility, but Bobby saw that the boss was looking to pull the trigger on that as soon as the assignment wrapped up. There was no one in the Chicago branch of USMS Fugitive Task Force that he wanted to work with that closely or trust enough to have his back, except perhaps, Marshall Mann. If Bobby had his pick for a partner, the tall goofball would definitely be his first choice. Only Marshall was not a goofball anymore, and in Chicago on a temporary assignment Bobby automatically reminded himself.  
  
It was late. He logged off the system and powered down his computer. On the way out of his office, Bobby turned off the lights. The bullpen was dark and mostly empty. Bobby noticed the lights were on in the office used by Marshals from other branches of the service. He was not about to leave the building before trying to talk the Marshal who had been a permanent fixture in that office for the last four months into calling it quits for the night. He quietly walked down the hall and leaned against the open door, studying the man behind the desk.  
  
"Burning the midnight oil, Mann?" he asked with a smirk.  
  
"Contingency plan is not going to write itself, D."  
  
"We reconvene at 0600 hours tomorrow. Are you sure you want to get stuck here after the L stops running?"  
  
"I do not need the L. I walk. The million dollar question is what are you doing here this late?"  
  
"Same thing as you. I am leaving now, though, as should you. Go home, Marshall."  
  
"I do not have a home... in Chicago. It is a place to sleep and a temporary one at that. Nothing more."  
  
"You signed the lease for a year."  
  
"What is your point?"  
  
"Does she know?"  
  
"She does not need to know."  
  
"You spend ninety percent of your time in this office. You obviously do not want to be in Albuquerque. Why don't you transfer already?"  
  
"Everything is fine as it is. Drop it, D."  
  
"Fine, be a tool. I'm going home. Later, bro."  
  
Bobby pushed off the doorjamb and walked away shaking his head. If Marshall wanted to self-destruct, who was he to stop the man? A _friend_ , his subconscious offered. Bobby keyed himself out of the security gate and assaulted the elevator call button, mulling over Marshall's behavior.  
  
Bobby recalled the day when Mann first showed up at the Chicago office. The team was getting reinforcements from various branches around the country to orchestrate the finale of the operation twenty months in the making. He briefly glanced over the list of names, feigning interest until one jumped out from the page. A Deputy Marshal Mann was to join the task force on a loan from an undisclosed office. Bobby knew Marshall's brothers were in the service and assumed he would be meeting one of them shortly. He was surprised when his friend walked through the door instead.  
  
Until that morning, Dershowitz had not seen Marshall since leaving Albuquerque. He was happy to see his friend, but at the same time perplexed that Mary Shannon was not storming the office ahead of her levelheaded partner. The two used to be joined at the hip.  
  
"Where is your evil twin?" Bobby quipped.  
  
"She transferred." Marshall said coldly. His tone did not allow for questions Bobby ached to ask.  
  
Detective Dershowitz joined the Organized Crime and Drug Enforcement Task Force program to work homicide related to drug trafficking activities of the Sinaloa Cartel in the greater Chicago area on a loan from Albuquerque police department thirty-six months ago. Choosing Chicago as one of the hubs for their drug trade, Sinaloa Cartel brought unthinkable violence to mark their territory to thwart any attempts at domination from rivals. In addition to the drug trade the Sinaloa Cartel was involved in arms dealing and money laundering.  
  
Recently, local cartel cells started growing marijuana near the Chequamegon Nicolet National Forest. A federal investigation revealed at least ten sites of varying sizes in the national forest and northern Wisconsin. The drug epidemic Oregon and California battled with for years came to the suburbs of the Windy City. Operation Chicago Blues was created by the Department of Justice in response to the increased activity in the area. It was modeled after highly successful Operation Dollar Train executed in the California Bay Area, which resulted in numerous indictments, seizure of assets and controlled substances.  
  
Operation Chicago Blues needed people like Marshall Mann. He had the training, the intelligence and tenacity to apprehend vicious criminals like Juan Rodriguez, the man allegedly running one of the largest drug trafficking cells of the Sinaloa Cartel operating in the Chicago area. What Bobby did not understand was what Marshall could possibly get out of this assignment. It was as if Marshall was running away from Albuquerque, but that made no sense to Bobby. If someone had told him two years ago that Marshall would leave WITSEC even for a temporary gig, he would have laughed them out of the squad room. And yet, there they were, at the FTF office, working on contingency plans for the next step of the Operation Chicago Blues.  
  
It did not take long for Bobby to notice that Marshall was different from the man he knew in Albuquerque. Derisive sarcasm and sardonic smile had replaced inane trivia and the goofy grin, and combat training had edged out geeky hobbies. There were no more obscure lectures at the university, Latin dance or origami classes, but hours of target practice or sparring at the training facility. Mann focused on work with such tenacity as though nothing else mattered. The man had turned himself into a machine. _"Damn it, Shannon,"_ Bobby thought walking to the train. _"What did you do?"_  
  
Bobby sighed, uncertain what to do next. Marshall had always been a person to talk up a storm without sharing much about his personal life. Something must have happened in Albuquerque to cause such a drastic change in his friend. Bobby had an inkling Mary was involved. He could not imagine what could have come between the partners. After all, the pair had been inseparable before Bobby left town.  
  
Adding to Bobby's confusion, a month ago Marshall let it slip that he had proposed to his fiancée, an APD detective, seven months prior. Bobby was first shocked, then confused after working out the timeline. Marshall showed up in Chicago three months after getting engaged, and had been voluntarily increasing his presence at this office. It made no sense. Bobby could not figure out why Marshall was spending so much time away from his fiancée, when they should have been planning the wedding. His friend was keeping mum and shot down any attempt Bobby made to ask him about the subject.  
  
Bobby needed inside information. Picking up the phone, Bobby dialed Stan McQueen. With the time difference, now was a time good as any for a fishing expedition. The Chief was still at the office. He sounded tired, Bobby realized. After the exchange of pleasantries, Bobby grabbed the bull by the horns.  
  
"Stan, why did you lend out Marshall to the task force?"  
  
"Bobby, I am not at liberty to discuss these things. Surely, you ought to understand that."  
  
"C'mon Stan, throw me a bone. Off the record. I tried getting Shannon and Mann assigned to this Operation months ago and was shot down. What the hell happened?"  
  
"Look, if I could have kept Marshall in Albuquerque, I would have. But my hands were tied. Instead of a team with the best record in the service, I was left with a difficult Marshal in need of a partner."  
  
"Wait, a difficult Marshal? Surely, you do not mean Mann?"  
  
"Bobby, have you talked to him lately?"  
  
"Why do you think I called?"  
  
"Well, then you know Marshall did not want to stay in Albuquerque."  
  
"This had something to do with Mary. Why did she transfer?"  
  
"If you want an answer to that question, you would have to ask her."  
  
"Mary transferred to D.C., right?"  
  
"I see you have done your homework. Good. Then I am sure you know Mary left six month ago. What you probably do not know, is she has severed all contact with everyone from Albuquerque. You might be walking into a minefield."  
  
"Would not be the first time, Chief."  
  
They talked for a while longer. Bobby learned that Stan had fought tooth and nail to keep Marshall's assignment in Chicago brief, but was overruled. Marshal Robbins, who replaced Marshal Pearson at the District level, instructed him to reassign Mann's cases to other Marshals and sent another senior Inspector to manage the case load. For Marshall, this was a bona fide transfer without the paper trail and moving truck. The arrangement seemed to suit him just fine, sparing him from a difficult conversation with his fiancée he clearly wanted to avoid.  
  
The conversation did not clarify much for Bobby. He was still missing crucial pieces of the puzzle. In order to put it all together, he had to see the other person who had the answers. Bobby had banked enough frequent flier miles for a visit to the Capital. The Cherry Blossom Festival was in full swing. _"I always liked them cherry blossoms."_ Bobby chuckled. Assuming the operation did not blow up in their faces in the following two days, he would be taking a weekend sightseeing trip to Washington D.C.  
  
  
Three. Wayward Inspector  
  
  
The security gate chimed. Marshall made a beeline for his desk intent on avoiding his coworkers. He returned from Chicago for a few days to check in with a couple of his witnesses and spend time with Abigail. A conversation with Bobby from two nights ago had him feeling guilty for neglecting his fiancée. Lost in thought, he did not notice Stan stopping at his desk.  
  
"A word, please, Inspector," Stan said, gesturing to his office.  
  
Marshall tossed his jacket onto a chair and followed his boss into the office. Stan watched the younger man closely, trying to get a read on his mood. Marshall had always been a private person, but since Mary's departure, became increasingly unapproachable especially in the matters of personal nature.  
  
"How was your flight?" Stan asked.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Have you eaten yet?"  
  
"No. Why?"  
  
"How does Lucia sound?"  
  
"Fancy. Stan, why are you taking me to lunch?"  
  
"I'd like to speak to you in private."  
  
"Stan, I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on, and witness visits planned for this afternoon. I do not have time for this."  
  
"Humor me, Marshall. This will not take more than an hour out of your day."  
  
Stan walked out of his office, stopping Delia on the way.  
  
"Delia, please ask Inspector Eldridge to wait for Marshall and me before she leaves for her afternoon rounds."  
  
As soon as she acknowledged his request, Stan resumed walking towards the security gate and indicated for Marshall to follow him.  
  
As they got on the elevator, Marshall asked, "Another one?"  
  
Stan let out an exasperated sigh.  
  
"Yes, Marshall, and I expect you to work with her. Inspector Eldridge is here to stay whether you like it or not. I will not let you run her out of this office. She transferred in from San Diego with excellent credentials. I had to pull quite a few strings to get her here."  
  
"Stan, I told you, I do not need another partner. I am fine on my own." Marshall said without breaking his stride.  
  
Stan did not have the patience for dealing with Marshall's petulant outbursts, so he ignored the statement.  
  
"Get in the truck. Lunch is waiting."  
  
The drive took no more than two minutes. Both Marshals kept silent: Stan was trying to figure out how to deal with his newly insubordinate Inspector and Marshall wanting to avoid a talk all together. Stan had enough reasons for concern. First, there was the late night call from Bobby two days ago, and then a call from his boss, Chief Deputy Marshal Brooks the following morning. There was a permanent spot for a Supervisory Deputy Marshal on the Chicago FTF team. Emmet Brooks made the call to Chief McQueen as a courtesy before offering the position to Inspector Mann.  
  
After the Marshals were seated at the table, Stan decided to work his way to broaching the sensitive subject of the transfer.  
  
"So, you like working with Dershowitz?" he asked.  
  
"No complaints," Marshall said, studying his boss.  
  
"What about Chicago?"  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"You have spent quite a bit of time there lately. You must have an opinion."  
  
Stan was hoping to hear bits of trivia, statistics, or anything that would remotely suggest that old Marshall was still there underneath the bitterness that the new Marshall wore as body armor.  
  
"I haven't seen much of it, I spend most of my time at the office," Marshall said, looking away from his boss. He was tired of small talk. The Chief took him to lunch to discuss something important, but had not said anything of substance in a half an hour. It was time to put Stan out of his misery.  
  
"Stan, not that I do not appreciate your interest in my latest assignment, but clearly you have something you wanted to ask me. So, please, just go ahead and ask. Spare us both the headache."  
  
"Marshall, are you unhappy in WITSEC anymore? Do you want to leave Albuquerque?"  
  
Under the circumstances, the question was not unexpected, but Marshall was unprepared to give his boss the answer. Marshall had no desire to discuss his thoughts on the matter with any of them, not Abby, Bobby, or Stan. They would not understand why he felt anchorless. The only person who would was the one who made him feel this way in the first place. He often wished he could talk to her, to hear her voice, no matter how much pain it caused him. But, every time he reached for the phone, he stopped himself. She left him despite the pleading and reasoning he had laid at her feet, and her abandonment was the cause of his undoing. He could not, would not call her no matter how much it killed him. She dropped a bomb and ran, just like she always had; only this time, he was too broken to chase her.  
  
Marshall knew his friends and fiancée wanted to help him out of his rut. It was only a matter of time, before Stan found a reason to get him into sessions with Shelley, but for now, Marshall was content just going about his work, trying to focus on the mundane and not analyze his behavior too much. It was less painful that way, because the harsh truth was, Marshall no longer knew what he wanted. He did not feel at home in Albuquerque with Abby. He did not want to second guess his motives for proposing to his girlfriend, but his latest funk was a testament to the error of his ways. He thought he could build a family with Abigail, and be content being Mary's friend. Never once had it occurred to him, that Mary could break their friendship after his engagement and what it would do to him when she did.  
  
When a request for a temporary assignment to the task force came through, Marshall was all too happy to jump on it. He did not want to break in a new partner, think about Mary's leaving, or his future. Working in Chicago meant he did not have to make any decisions; he could prolong being in limbo until he was ready to move on with his life, whatever direction it may take him. He did not want to make his move to Chicago permanent. The city was alien to him: too cold, too windy, and too northern. Now, sitting at the table with Stan, he had no idea how to respond to his question without lying, and his boss was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.  
  
The uncomfortable silence lingered over the table. Finally, Marshall decided to share at least partial truth.  
  
"I do not know what I want, Stan." He said quietly. "I try not to think about my future much these days. I take it a day at a time."  
  
"But, Marshall, this is no way to live. You have to…"  
  
Stan's words were interrupted with the buzzing of his phone. He answered it, listened for a few moments, flagged down the waitress to bring the check and settled up.  
  
"We will have to finish this conversation another time, Marshall. Michael Rand just ran into his former colleagues at the Convention Center. We have to move him. As much as I hate the idea of sending you out of town when you just returned with a partner you don't know, I have no choice."  
  
Marshall only nodded. He knew it was futile to fight Stan on this issue. The regulations were clear: emergency relocations were performed by a team of Marshals. He could only hope that the new woman was at least half as good as Mary. At times like these, he wished this was just a nightmare. That if he could will himself into wakefulness, Mary would be kicking down his door and demanding coffee. Wishing for impossible, he sighed.  
  
On the bright side, his current arrangement allowed him to leave town without stopping at his house. His go bag was in his truck, full of clean clothes and supplies. He had made the right choice when he leased a small place in Chicago. He briefly considered calling Abigail, but decided against it. There was no reason to tell her he was back, if he was leaving town again. He would call her from the road.  
  
Walking into the office, Marshall noticed that Stan had put the new Marshal at Mary's old desk. He could not help resenting her before making the acquaintance. Somehow, her being at Mary's desk felt like an impostor was taking over her space. Marshall knew he was being irrational. He struggled with the urge to hit something, to take out his frustration with Mary and Stan on a piece of furniture. Instead, he sauntered over to the desk and studied the nameplate displayed neatly by the computer screen. It read _L. Anne Eldridge._  
  
Before he had a chance to contemplate why he recognized the name, a familiar nasal voice behind him said, "Well, isn't this Inspector Marshal Marshall Mann. Long time no see."  
Startled, he spun around.  
  
  
Four. Old Friends  
  
  
Marshall stood in the middle of the office, staring at Leigh-Anne DiStefano as though she were a hallucination of his troubled mind. Leigh had been his first partner in the Service for three years in Florida, where they were first assigned. She took a desk job after getting married and Marshall transferred to Albuquerque WITSEC. He had lost touch with Leigh after her husband and two year old son were killed in a car crash seven years ago. She left the service and disappeared. All his attempts to find her were unsuccessful. It was as though she had dropped off the face of the earth a few months after the funeral. Finally, he gave up, deciding that if she took great pains to stay hidden from him, he had to abide by her wishes. She would find him when she was ready.  
  
"Leigh, it is so good to see you." Marshall said, pulling her into a hug.  
  
"God, I forgot how tall you are," she took a step back, "but you haven't changed one bit."  
  
"You're such a bad liar, Inspector Eldridge," he chuckled mirthlessly. "What's with the name change?"  
  
"It's a long story, Marshall."  
  
"Sorry to interrupt your trip down memory lane, Inspectors," Stan said, hiding his amusement. "You have a witness to transport. Anne, is Michael here?"  
  
"I put him in the conference room. He is frazzled, but unharmed." she said with a smirk.  
  
"I have to make a few calls, carry on..." Stan said, returning to his office. His gamble in getting Leigh-Anne to Albuquerque might have paid off.  
  
Marshall watched the conversation between his old friend and his boss, still shell-shocked from the encounter.  
  
"How about a shorthand version, Leigh? You went off the grid for nearly seven years. Now you're back to active duty in Albuquerque no less and with a new name. What gives?"  
  
"I'm sorry for not keeping in touch, Marshall. I had a rough time. I returned to the Service in the Houston office eight months after the accident, spent two years of riding the desk, and then got reassigned to FTF out of L.A. From there I went to San Diego WITSEC and now here." She sighed.  
  
"As for the name change, Eldridge was my mother's maiden name. I go by Anne now… being called Leigh DiStefano brought back too many memories I could not handle when I became a Marshal again."  
  
"Inspectors," Stan called their attention, "your jet leaves in an hour. Tulsa Marshals are anxious to take Michael Rand off our hands. Better get moving."  
  
"You got it, Chief." Marshall said, heading into the conference room to get the witness.  
  
Stan smiled, watching the retreating backs of his inspectors hustling the witness out of the office. Personnel files had long histories for a reason. Sometimes in order to go forward, one had to go back. Getting Marshall's first partner might have been sheer genius on his part. _"That's why they pay me the big bucks, ladies and gentlemen."_  
  
Stan had done his homework on Leigh-Anne Eldridge; she was one tough Marshal. _"If anyone could get Marshall to straighten up his act, my money is on Leigh-Anne,"_ Stan mused. He realized a celebration was premature, but the change in the tall Inspector's demeanor was noticeable since Leigh-Anne walked through the door.  
  
  
  
The transfer went as smoothly as could be expected for an emergency relocation of a jumpy witness. In three hours they handed Michael off to the Tulsa Marshals, filled out all the required paperwork and were on the way back to Albuquerque. The routine witness visits could wait until the following morning, so when Marshall suggested to grab takeout before heading over to his place to catch up Leigh-Anne happily accepted.  
  
When the partners pulled up to the house Marshall shared with Abigail, they had enough sushi to feed a small army and two six packs of Asahi Super Dry beer. As they made it inside, Abigail met them at the door.  
  
"Honey, this is my new partner, Anne," Marshall said, giving Abby a light hug. As she tilted her head up for a kiss, Marshall sidestepped her heading into the kitchen.  
  
"It's nice to meet you, Abigail. You have a lovely home." Leigh-Anne said, watching the dejected expression on the younger woman's face morph into a forced smile.  
  
"You too, Anne. Come on in. Would you like a glass of Pinot?"  
  
"No, I'm good with beer, thanks."  
  
The women walked into the kitchen, as Marshall was laying out the place settings on the table.  
  
"Sugar bug, the weather is nice enough to sit outside, why don't I take these to the patio." Abigail said, pouring herself a glass of white wine.  
  
"Don't worry, I will take care of it, honey."  
  
"So, have you guys set the date?" Leigh-Anne asked as soon as Marshall was out of earshot.  
  
"Not yet, since Mary left, Marshall has been so busy with witnesses, I hardly see him these days." Abigail said, smiling weakly.  
Leigh-Anne furrowed her eyebrows in the unspoken question.  
  
"Marshall did not break the regulations, if that's what you are wondering. I worked a few cases with these guys and figured out what they did on my own."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
Marshall walked in just as both women fell silent unsure how to continue the conversation. Abby was first to break the uncomfortable silence.  
  
"What about you, Anne, are you seeing anyone?"  
  
"Not at the moment. I just transferred from San Diego and haven't had much time to meet anyone yet," she chuckled.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, Anne," Marshall said, glaring at his fiancée. "The dinner is served. Shall we?"  
  
"Oh no, you didn't," Leigh-Anne chortled. "Dinner is served… you are too much," she was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, unable to stop laughing.  
  
"That was some subterfuge." Marshall guffawed loudly. "Until you brought this up, I forgot all about Robbins... cross my heart."  
  
Leigh-Anne's only response was a louder bout of laughter, as she collapsed into the patio chair.  
  
Abigail sat at the table, watching the exchange between partners, perplexed. Marshall had said Anne was his new partner, and yet, there was no awkwardness and an odd sense of familiarity between them that made no sense. Not more than a week ago, Delia told her about Stan having issues with finding Marshall a permanent partner.  
  
When Marshall called to tell Abigail he invited his new partner for dinner, she was excited and maybe a little apprehensive at the spontaneity of his decision. She would have thought Marshall's first night at home would be reserved just for the two of them. He must have had a good reason to bring Leigh-Anne along, not that he cared enough to fill her in on that reason. The dinner implied he wanted to make it work with this partner. It gnawed at her that he had done back into the field solo for the past six months. She was relieved, knowing from now on someone would watch his back. Abigail was unsure why she assumed Marshall's new partner was a man, but was unpleasantly surprised to feel a pang of jealousy when she saw a woman at the door.  
  
Abigail refilled her glass, continuing her observation of the duo. She listened to their conversation, in which, at this point, they made no effort to include her, and felt she was somehow an intruder in her own home. Sipping her wine she wondered why her fiancée consistently put his partners ahead of their relationship. The pattern was unnerving. She had to admit though, tonight, Marshall seemed to be returning to his old self again. He was smiling a genuine smile, granted one that was directed at another woman, but a smile nonetheless. Maybe, with Leigh-Anne in the picture, Abigail would get a chance to rebuild the relationship with Marshall and move ahead with planning their wedding. She realized she would not mind competing for his time again, as long as when he was with her, he would actually be with her, not floating somewhere in ether as he had been over the last six months. Abigail drained her glass and refilled it again, finishing the bottle.  
  
"Honey," Marshall's apologetic tone broke through her thoughts, "are you sure about this?" he asked.  
  
She gave him a startled look. Last thing she expected was for Marshall to insinuate she drank too much.  
  
"Yes, I am sure," her Texan twang was more pronounced than usual.  
  
As Marshall tried to stop Abigail from finishing the bottle of wine, he regretted inviting Leigh-Anne to their place that evening. He should have taken her to dinner; it would have spared them from this display. In hindsight, he should have expected this evening to go badly. He was well aware of his problems with Abigail, and bringing a female partner on his first night back in town was not the brightest idea he had. There was little that could redeem his actions tonight, but his wish to catch up with his old friend without leaving his fiancée alone on a Friday night. It looked like his good intentions backfired spectacularly.  
  
"Marshall, it's getting late, would you call me a cab, please," Leigh-Anne said quietly. "If you don't mind, I will wait for it outside. See you at the office tomorrow."  
  
"Anne... I will walk you out," Marshall said, dialing the number of the taxi company.  
  
"Yes, Marshall, you do that." Abigail said, stumbling over to the kitchen. "Good night, Anne."  
  
Marshall returned to the house after putting Leigh-Anne into a cab. He could not help being mad at Abigail.  
  
"Well, this was an interesting evening," Abigail said from the chair in the living room. A second bottle of Pinot was left open on the kitchen counter.  
  
Marshall studied his fiancée. He could not believe she had gotten drunk.  
  
"I hope you know what you are doing," he said, heading into their bedroom. He had an early morning tomorrow and did not feel like fighting.  
  
Marshall conceded, he could have explained to Abigail that he had known Leigh long before her transfer to Albuquerque, but something stopped him. He was grateful Leigh had not asked about Mary during the evening, figuring she had gotten enough inside information from Stan to keep her questions to herself. Mary. He sighed. As happy as he was to see Leigh-Anne, she was no replacement for Mary.  
  
He had until Tuesday of the following week to deal with all the routine witness issues, and then he had to return to the Fugitive Task Force to for the final phase of the Operation Chicago Blues.  
  
  
Five. Cherry Blossoms  
  
  
After six months in D.C., Mary was miserable. She rented a small apartment in the city, bought a mattress, a desk and a chair, and a few other essentials. There was no point to bother with furnishings: she needed a place to sleep and had little interest in anything else. Often sleep was elusive. Mary spent most of her time at the office, a place where she had enough distractions and not enough time for introspection. She did not keep in touch with anyone from Albuquerque.  
  
On recommendation from McQueen, Chief Inspector Ryan O'Neill partnered Mary with the most even-tempered of his senior inspectors. The results did not disappoint. Until she came along, Don Saunders had trouble keeping partners: despite being built like a rock, he preferred to verbally settle disputes. Most Marshals who partnered with him tried to play tug of war for dominance, and failed to understand his refusal to rise to the challenge. Don felt his combat skills were reserved for training days and protecting witnesses, not roughhousing. That attitude suited Mary just fine.  
  
Don was a fine Marshal, but he was no Marshal Marshall. Despite that evident shortcoming of his, they had developed a good working relationship. He took Mary's insults in stride and dished them back when she got too pushy. Mary did her own paperwork and threat assessments. She was the first one to arrive and the last one to leave the office. Their fellow Marshals asked Don if his partner ever went home. He knew the answer, but refused to share. It was no one's business what Mary did if she wanted to keep it to herself.  
  
The weeks rolled by, seasons changed, Mary buried herself under a double caseload.  
  
"Shannon," Chief O'Neill said, walking into the office one Saturday night, "you need to get a life."  
  
"I had one a while back. I have no use for it," she responded, turning to her computer to end the conversation.  
  
"Oh, by the way, what are _you_ doing here on a Saturday night, if you are so keen on the work and life balance shtick?" she tossed over her shoulder.  
  
"Nice redirect, Mary. But this is not about me."  
  
"Keep telling yourself that."  
  
"Not that I do not commend your effort, Mary, but you have to slow down. That's an order," he said, staring at the back of her head. "Take a few days, go visit family or friends. I am sure McQueen would like to see you. I don't give a rat's ass where you go, as long as your behind is out of this office chair." He paused. "Witness visits do not count. Is that clear?"  
  
"Crystal. And I'll be out of your hair as soon as you tell me who will handle the Chens, the Liptons and the Suttons, um? Are you going to stick Donnie with three most volatile WITSEC families we've had in the last three months by his lonesome?" She narrowed her eyes at her boss. "And as much as it pains me to admit, I have no desire for Emily to hunt me down like a rabid dog should something happen to Donnie-boy while I am basking in the Albuquerque sun. No can do, Ry."  
  
Ryan raked his hand through his hair. He liked Inspector Shannon. She lived up to her reputation: bossy, brassy and tenacious. She took the Washington D.C. office by storm. But he saw she was hurting on the inside, and knew from firsthand experience seeking refuge in work seldom turned out well. Usually, someone wound up dead. He had to force her out of the office, to deal with whatever it was she had to deal with personally.  
  
"Well, at least take the night off, Mary. The guys probably hit the Townhouse tonight. Why don't you join them for a pint or a round of pool?"  
  
"Right, I don't see their mugs enough at the office, I need to entertain them during my time off too. Are you insane?"  
  
"Maybe you can take a break and catch up with this gentleman, then," Ryan said, keying someone into the office.  
  
"Chief O'Neill, I'm Robert Dershowitz. It's nice to meet you." Bobby said shaking the other man's hand. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice."  
  
Mary swiftly turned in her chair slack jawed, as Bobby came up to her desk grinning widely.  
  
"What are you doing here, D.?" Mary asked in a strained voice.  
  
"Well, hello to you too, Inspector Shannon. I thought I might find you at the office."  
  
"What the hell are you doing here, Bobby?"  
  
"What? I can't visit an old friend?" he asked, leaning on her desk.  
  
"Answering a question with a question is a sure way to get shot."  
  
"I'm glad to see you are just as trigger happy as ever, Mary."  
  
"Cut the crap, Bobby, and answer the question. I am not going to repeat myself the third time," she said glaring at him.  
  
"Mary, I'm here for no other reason than to see you."  
  
"Aw, you missed me, Dershowitz? Cute." She chuckled mirthlessly. "Now, what is it you want?"  
  
"Can't a friend just visit a friend with no ulterior motive?"  
  
"Not you, Dershowitz."  
  
"Ah, Mary, you hurt me," he said mock pouting. "How about we grab food and talk?"  
  
"Fine, but only if you're buying. And start talking quickly," she said, briefly turning her attention to her computer to log off.  
  
The Marshals walked into Old Ebbitt Grill. It was packed tonight, but Bobby worked his magic on the hostess and a table for two became available before they finished their first round at the bar.  
  
Mary smirked, "Very smooth, Bobby."  
  
"That's me, baby," he said grinning.  
  
"Want to lose your balls, keep calling me baby."  
  
He laughed, prepared for her outburst.  
  
"Shannon, remember who's footing the bill."  
  
"I am getting the largest fillet they got then," Mary said opening the menu.  
  
After the waitress took their orders, Mary narrowed her eyes at Bobby.  
  
"D., aren't you forgetting something?"  
  
"What?" He made an innocent face.  
  
"Don't play dumb, Bobby. What are you doing in D.C.?" she asked, folding a napkin into her lap.  
  
Deschowitz knew an opening when he saw one. This was his chance to get her to talk.  
  
"Talk to your partner lately?"  
  
"No. And he is not my partner anymore."  
  
"I knew it. What the hell happened, Mary?"  
  
"None of your damn business, Bobby," she said, crossing her arms at her chest.  
  
"Sure it is, if my ass is on the line."  
  
He took in her defensive posture and leaned back in his chair. He was not about to say anything else, unless she asked.  
  
"What the hell do you mean by that?"  
  
She tried to keep her tone flat, but Bobby heard that he piqued her curiosity.  
  
"I mean, the guy is supposed to watch my back now."  
  
"Care to elaborate?" she asked, staring straight into his eyes trying to figure out if he was messing with her.  
  
"Well, if he spends most of his time at the Chicago branch of the FTF, you figure it out."  
  
"He transferred?" Despite her best efforts to contain her shock, it showed in her tone.  
  
"Just about." Bobby nodded.  
  
"Good for him then."  
  
"What are you talking about? How long have you known him? Marshall lived and breathed WITSEC."  
  
Bobby nearly jumped out of his seat, forgetting for a moment they were at a restaurant.  
  
"He is a big boy; he knows what he is doing," Mary said, taking a swig from her beer.  
  
"Fine. Then tell me something. Why did you leave Albuquerque?"  
  
"Bobby, does this look like an interrogation room to you?"  
  
He saw her defensive walls coming up, and reverted to familiar banter to ease the tension.  
  
"Mary, answering a question with a question is a sure way to get shot," he said with a smirk.  
  
"You won't leave this alone, will you?" she asked, recognizing his tactic.  
  
"Not a chance. I flew seven hundred miles to get an answer to this question."  
  
Mary looked at him and sighed. She had to tell him something.  
  
"Sometimes you have to lose a limb to save a life."  
  
"Mary, what's with the metaphors?"  
  
"I left because I had to, alright? There was no place for me there anymore. It was time to move on."  
  
She fell silent, unwilling to continue the conversation. Bobby realized it was time to let it go an emotional Mary was volatile, and he did not care to lose any body parts. Plus she would never forgive him if he pushed for more in her moment of weakness. They finished their meal reminiscing about the good old times and parted their ways amicably. Bobby returned to Chicago the following morning.

  
Six. The Takedown  
  
  
On a gloomy Tuesday morning, Marshall walked into John C. Kluczynski Federal Building. The Operation Chicago Blues takedown was scheduled for the following morning. He met Dershowitz in the lobby and handed him a cup of coffee.  
  
"Did you get in last night?" Bobby asked.  
  
"Uh-huh. Did I miss anything?"  
  
"No. Yesterday was the overview for the muscle from the ATF, ICE and SWAT. I was there to make sure the top guys got all the bases covered. Today is the tactical stuff." Bobby said as they got on the elevator going upstairs to the DEA conference room equipped with the largest widescreen capable of displaying building floor plans, hangar layouts and target profiles all at the same time.  
  
The conference room was filling up quickly despite an early hour. Marshall noticed a few familiar faces among the ranks, but now was not the time to catch up. The briefing was about to start. Special Agent Greg Poulos from the DEA was running the show. Marshall worked with the Agent fairly closely over the last four months. Greg was a blunt kind of a guy with 'take no prisoners' attitude.  
  
"Listen up, people," Poulos said, his deep voice stilling the hum of the conversations.  
  
"We have a lot of ground to cover. The operation is at 0100 hours tomorrow morning: we are hitting the Port, the hangar at the Schaumburg Airport and the El Fuego night club. This morning we will go over the big picture, and break into tactical teams after lunch. Your assignment briefs are laid out on the table in the back, pick them up before you leave for the breakout sessions. We should be done with the details by 1800 hours tonight so everyone has enough time to rest going into this takedown. We cannot afford any mistakes; if anything is unclear now is the time to ask questions."  
  
Looking around the room, he made sure everyone was engaged and turned on the screen. He started the briefing by going over various candid photos and mug-shots of the key players running four cartel cells they were after. The main targets were the runners of these cells: Juan Rodriguez, Jorge Ramos, Luis Jimenez and Jose Veracruz.  
  
"Our goal is to disrupt the distribution network of the cartel. Once we disable these four cells, we will shut down the operation that grows and processes marijuana in Northern Illinois and Wisconsin, and then moves it by truckload to the warehouse at the port. From there it is distributed to the wholesalers and down the chain to the street drug pushers.  
  
These cells are also involved in moving marijuana, cocaine and heroin from Mexico that arrives in cargo ships, submarines, trains and plains. I am talking tons of product here, people. The cartel members are heavily armed and prepared for violence. They are responsible for the massacre at the Copa Cabana club in 2009, when they wiped out the competition. We prefer to get them alive. But be prepared to fire your weapons; a dead thug is better than a dead law enforcement officer. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Acknowledging nods of agreement, Poulos continued.  
  
"We received intel that a new wholesale buyer who has negotiated with Rodriguez for months is arriving to close the deal tomorrow morning. If it goes through, the volume of the product moved by these cells is estimated to double. The buyer is expected at the port at 0100 hours via helicopter. The deal is handled by Ramos and Jimenez. The team at the port will apprehend all three. Rodriguez will be taken down at the club and Veracruz at the airport. Any questions before we break for lunch?"  
  
The room was silent.  
  
"Okay then, as a reminder, pick up the assignment briefs on your way out. Reconvene with your team at 1300 hours for tactical instructions."  
  
Marshall and Bobby were part of the operation at the El Fuego club. When they walked into the breakout briefing room they were greeted by Steve Boyd and Tony Jones, the DEA Agents they had worked with closely over the last few months, and Lauren Shapiro and Rick Das, Marshals from the Chicago FTF office. The rest of the group consisted of guys from SWAT. CPD, ICE and ATF teams were assigned to the operation at the Port of Chicago and the Schaumburg Airport.  
  
Bobby clicked on the screen and pointed to the blueprint of the club, which showed the location of means of egress and CCTV cameras.  
  
"The club is hosting a live band tonight. This means the place will be packed. Rodriguez' office is located on the second floor," he said, changing the screenshot. "He usually arrives at the club at 11 P.M. with six cartel goons as his personal guard and spends until 2 A.M. in his office. While Rodriguez is in his office, five guards take position in the front sitting room, and one at the back door. The office has a second exit into the main corridor that bypasses the sitting room. The main corridor leads to this hallway and into staircase down to the exit into the back alley," he pointed to the blueprint.  
  
"So, how do we play it?" Steve asked.  
  
"Two snipers will take position on the rooftops across from the main and back entrances. SWAT will lock the place down and we go in to the office to get Rodriguez. Gear up at 2400 hours back here. Expect the unexpected."  
  
As they were walking out of the breakout room, Marshall pulled Bobby aside.  
  
"D., you want to crash on my pullout couch?"  
  
"Nah, I'll get my beauty sleep at the office. I'm used to that bunk."  
  
"Suit yourself," Marshall said, making his way out of the building.  
  
Bobby sighed, looking after his friend's retreating form. He had a bad feeling about this op. He had nothing against either Shapiro or Das, but having Shannon and Saunders backing them up instead would have given him more comfort. After getting back from D.C., Dershowitz made another unofficial inquiry with Marshal Brooks to see if he could get Mary and Don to join the op, but was shot down. When FTF Marshals were available locally, pulling WITSEC Marshals from out of state was off the table.  
  
Bobby keyed himself into the office and flopped onto the cot in the break room. He needed to get some shuteye to function properly at the takedown. God only knew when he would have another chance to get to sleep. But it seemed his brain refused to cooperate. _"What the hell did Shannon mean when she said sometimes you have to lose a limb to save a life? Whose life does she think she is saving by making herself and Mann miserable?"_ he thought, tossing and turning. He pulled his Blackberry off his belt and stared at the timestamp. He set the alarm and buried his head under a pillow. _"After this is over, I will get her to talk to him, even if I have to drag her up here kicking and screaming,"_ he decided before drifting off to sleep.  
  
  
The team gathered at the DEA office at midnight. They checked their weapons and tactical headsets, strapped on bullet proof vests and loaded up into the van. As soon as they received word that SWAT was in position, they were on the move. They arrived at the club at 1 A.M. sharp. On Bobby's command the SWAT team closed the place off.  
  
"U.S. Marshals, everybody on the floor."  
  
The music stopped playing, and everyone just stared at them.  
  
"On the floor, I said. Now!"  
  
In an instant the whole club was completely still except for the strobe lights at the ceiling. The band was flat on the stage, the bartenders and waitresses down, trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres abandoned, the crowd that was dancing only seconds ago was on the floor, afraid to lift their heads.  
  
"Move! Move! Move!"  
  
The velvet ropes were tossed open, the plush couches and glass top tables overturned in the commotion. The bouncer normally blocking the staircase leading to the second floor was dragged off to the side. The SWAT team was upstairs first. Shots were fired. Marshall and Bobby ran up the stairs to get to Rodriguez before he made a run for it. Lauren and Rick were on their heels followed by Steve and Tony.  
  
The corridor was filled with the smoke of gunpowder. The Marshals heard the sound of the stun grenade going off in the sitting room in front of the office. Marshall ran down the long corridor to intercept Rodriguez. Bobby was following a step behind. Marshall rounded the corner first.  
  
"U.S. Marshals. Drop it," Marshall yelled, as Bobby came out from behind him.  
  
The guard opened fire: bullets riddled the walls dangerously close to their heads. Marshall stopped and took a shot. Under the dim lights of the hallway, Bobby saw the guard go down, sliding against the wall and leaving a bloody trail.  
  
"The stairs in the back," Marshall tossed over the shoulder to Bobby.  
  
"Right behind you, partner," Bobby huffed, without breaking his stride.  
  
Marshall pulled open the door into the hallway and darted to the right. Bobby went in after him, covering the left. Rodriguez was speeding down the hall, intent on making it to the stairs.  
"Stop or I'll shoot," Marshall yelled.  
  
"Drop it," Bobby screamed as Rodriguez turned around and fired.  
  
Something went wrong: Marshall did not return his fire and fell backwards. Before Rodriguez took another shot, Bobby fired back twice. Rodriguez stumbled back a step, dropped his weapon and fell over. For a moment, Bobby stood in the hallway, frozen as though time had stopped. Then, he leaped to Marshall's side, checking for a pulse. Marshall's face was covered in blood.  
  
"Officer down! I repeat, officer down. I need a bus." Bobby desperately screamed into his communicator.  
  
  
Seven. Road to Recovery  
  
  
Mary's phone buzzed on the floor by her bed. She reached for it, sleepily knocking over a water bottle.  
  
"Shit," she cursed, sitting up, and picked up the phone.  
  
"D., are you out of your mother-humping mind? Do you know what time it is?  
  
"Mary, Marshall was shot an hour ago."  
  
"Marshall what?"  
  
"I should not be telling you this. Brooks will have my hide for calling you. But I figured you wanted to know."  
  
"I'm on the first flight out. I'll call once I land."  
  
She hung up the phone, staring into the dark of her room trying to gather her thoughts. She let out the breath she was holding and dialed her boss.  
  
"Ry, you know how you said I had to take a few days off?"  
  
"Mary, you realize it is 3 A.M., right?"  
  
"I do. It's an emergency. I have to leave town."  
  
"How long do you think you'll be gone?"  
  
"I don't know, a few days? I will have a better idea when I get there."  
  
"Do you want to tell me what's going on?"  
  
"Not yet. Tell Don I will call him as soon as I know something."  
  
"All right. Take care of yourself and keep me in the loop."  
  
"Thanks Ry, I will."  
  
Mary pulled her go bag from the closet and left her apartment a half an hour after taking a call from Bobby. She was on the first direct flight from Dulles into O'Hare, which got her to Chicago by 7 A.M. As soon as the landing gear hit the runway, she was on the phone with Bobby.  
  
"D., I just landed. Which hospital did they take him to?"  
  
"Northwestern Memorial. Hang tight, I will come and get you."  
  
"I can take a cab."  
  
"Mary, I would rather not waste time arguing. Please wait for me at the airport. I'm on my way."  
  
Mary sighed, but decided not to push him, from the sound of his voice she could tell Dershowitz was stressed. She felt his anxiety down to her bones and fear gripped her heart. _"What if…"_ she stopped herself in the middle of that thought. _"I don't know anything yet. It's too early to jump to conclusions. I caught the first flight out because I had to make sure he's okay, that's all. There is nothing to freak out about."_ She stood by the carousel in the baggage claim and waited. Her hands were shaking slightly. She dropped her go bag at her feet and folded her arms on her chest. Then she adjusted the badge and the Glock on her hip, checked her phone. She hoisted the bag up onto her shoulder and walked out to the area for passenger pick up. There was little in this life she hated as much as idly waiting.  
  
Mary thought of countless stakeouts with Marshall. He always had something to occupy her during the hours they spent in rundown hotel rooms and vehicles of varying kind. She could really use the flow of random factoids to soothe her agitated mind while she waited for Dershowitz to arrive. She tried to focus on random things she knew about Chicago, but nothing came to mind other than sports teams and the Sears Tower. And she could not remember what the Sears Tower was called these days even if her life depended on it.  
  
Bobby spotted Mary before he pulled up to the curb. She was fidgeting with her jacket's zipper and staring into space. She noticed him only when his car came to a stop at the curb in front of her.  
  
"How bad is it?" she asked, getting into the car.  
  
"Not as bad as I thought. It's just a graze."  
  
"Bobby, who do you take me for? You wouldn't call me in the middle of the night for a damn graze."  
  
"Look, the bullet grazed his temple and knocked him out. I called while he was still unconscious. I didn't think you'd want me to wait and see, all right?"  
  
"Don't play it down for me, D. I need to know the truth." Her tone betrayed her.  
  
She was worried sick, Bobby realized. He sighed.  
  
"It really is not as bad as I thought when I called you. I was there when Marshall took the bullet... He got knocked out. He has a concussion, a partly shaved head, and fifteen stitches. Don't worry; once healed, your pretty boy will have all his hair to play with. You won't notice the difference."  
  
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."  
  
"Um, yeah, right. Very funny," Bobby said, remembering Mary had not seen Marshall in months. He decided to warn her.  
  
"You know your partner? The happy go lucky goofball? He is gone. The guy in his place has been a general pain in the ass to deal with lately. And I have no idea whom you will find in that hospital bed. One thing is for sure: he's not going to be Marshall that you knew."  
  
"Let's stop for pie then," Mary said, softly tapping her finger against the glass. She was certain she could handle anything Marshall dished out.  
  
"Pie?"  
  
"Bobby, how long have you known Marshall?" Mary asked, smiling for the first time since landing in Chicago.  
  
"Right. _Pie makes everything better._ I know just the place," he said with a chuckle.  
  
"Of course you do. Step on it Dershowitz, I'd like to get to the hospital before I have to retire."  
  
  
The doctor told Marshall that he had suffered a severe concussion and skin laceration from the impact of the bullet. As long as there was a friend or a relative capable of watching him for the next day or two days, he could be discharged after a second CAT scan in the afternoon. Otherwise he would stay at the hospital for at least the next twenty four hours. As anxious as he was to leave, Marshall was reluctant to call Abigail. He did not want to explain to her why he had not mentioned anything about renting an apartment or the amount of time he had spent in Chicago over the last four months. He convinced himself that he was looking out for her, sparing a whole day of travel for a minor injury that he could overcome on his own. Marshall would suffer through an extra day at the hospital. It was not that big of a deal. Briefly, more as a habit, he thought of Mary, but stopped himself. When she left, cutting him out of her life, she lost the right to know. Stan and Leigh would be notified through the Marshals' Service. As for his parents, there was no need to worry them over a scratch. So, when the nurse asked him if there was anyone he wanted notified of this condition, he declined.  
  
Marshall leaned back against his pillow. His head hurt and the room still spun a little when he opened his eyes. Waking up disoriented was one of the most disconcerting parts of being in the hospital. He had remembered the op went sideways, but not if they had gotten the target, until Bobby told him that the drug lord was retrieved from the scene in a body bag. Marshall was grateful to find Bobby by his side when he awoke, but even woozy from the concussion he noticed that his friend was agitated. He assumed that it had to do with the op, but now, he was not so sure.  
  
Marshall knew there would be an investigation. Dershowitz faced administrative leave and psych evaluation for firing his weapon. Until that moment it had not occurred to him that he would face the same procedure once he was cleared by the doctor; he had discharged his weapon earlier that night as well but Bobby had not told him whether the guard survived his injury. Marshall aimed to disable, not kill the guard, but could not be a hundred percent sure what had happened.  
  
Marshall pulled out his cell that Bobby had smuggled him earlier to check on the time. Bobby left about an hour ago after taking a call. Marshall could not hear the conversation, but it must have been something urgent. Dershowitz left hastily, muttering something about an errand he needed to run. Marshall hoped Bobby was not going to get involved in untangling the mess of the takedown without backup. It was enough that one of them was in the hospital.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted with the door to his room opening. He reached under his pillow, forgetting that Bobby had taken both his Glocks.  
  
"Hey, man," Bobby said, walking into Marshall's room. "I come bearing gifts."  
  
Grinning, he handed Marshall a box from Hoosier Mama Pie Company.  
  
"You brought me a _Fat Elvis_? Chocolate, peanut butter and bananas in graham cracker crust… Not that I am not grateful… But you look like a cat that swallowed a canary. What's going on?" Marshall asked, quirking an eyebrow at his friend. He set the box down on the white nightstand next to his bed, watching Bobby edge back to the door.  
  
"Pie is not all I brought," Bobby said as the door opened again and Mary made her way to Marshall's bedside.  
  
"Mary, what are you doing here?" Marshall asked, astonished.  
  
It really should not have surprised him that Bobby called her. He had thought of calling her himself not an hour earlier. But as happy as he was to see Mary, he could not help being angry with her.  
  
"Marshall, you know how much I hate when my partner gets shot," she said, gripping the back of a chair next to his bed and looking directly into his eyes.  
  
"I think you are forgetting something here, Mary. I am not your partner anymore."  
  
Marshall closed his eyes. He was in no shape for a staring contest. He was desperately trying to sort through emotions that overwhelmed him since Mary walked into his room.  
  
"I'm going to check on something…" Bobby said quietly, but neither Mary nor Marshall noticed his departure.  
  
"But you are still my friend," Mary said releasing the chair and folding her arms across her chest.  
  
"Well, you stopped being my friend when you left me, Mary. Friends do not abandon friends. You should know that better than anybody."  
  
The room was quiet for a few moments, and then he heard her start pacing.  
  
"I never abandoned you. I… I did what I had to."  
  
Marshall opened his eyes. He had expected a snarky comeback, not a contrite justification of her actions. He recalled a conversation in the diner when Mary had told him about the transfer. She had tried to explain her reasons for taking the assignment, but he was so shocked he could not make sense of what she was saying. Not that it made any more sense right now.  
  
"Sometimes people do what's best for those they care about," she said, her voice trembling.  
  
"If you are implying you care about me, you have a funny way of showing it."  
  
Marshall's words were harsh, but his tone had lost its bitterness. Mary froze in the middle of his room. He saw anger flare up in her green eyes and it occurred to him that he may have pushed her too far.  
  
"No, numb nuts, I don't give a damn about you. That's why I got up at the crack of dawn and took the first flight out here. Take care of yourself. I am going back to D.C."  
  
Mary stormed out of Marshall's room closing the door as softly as she could manage. It took all self-control she could muster not to slam it. It was not as though she expected Marshall to welcome her with open arms after six months of radio silence, but she was definitely unprepared for the verbal lashing she received. She should have listened to Bobby. He had tried to warn her. This was not the clean break Mary had hoped for when she took the transfer. They were both miserable and this trip only made things worse. At least when she assumed Marshall was happy she could pretend her life was fine. If neither of them was, that meant she had made a mistake and she was not ready to admit to making one yet. She had to leave quickly, maybe then things would work out as she had intended when she decided to leave Albuquerque.  
  
  
Eight. Expect the Unexpected  
  
  
Mary walked into the waiting room looking for Bobby. She wanted to see him before catching a cab to the airport. She found him shamelessly flirting with a nurse and pulled him aside.  
  
"D., this was a mistake. I'm heading back."  
  
"Mary, no..." Bobby frowned. "You can't leave like this."  
  
"He does not need me. I can't…" She could not bring herself to finish the sentence and turned away to regain composure. Stalking over to a window, she shoved her hand into her pocket and took out her cell phone.  
  
"Ry, I'm done here. I will take the first flight back from O'Hare," she said not bothering with a greeting. She was in no mood to exchange pleasantries.  
  
"Mary, I need you to stay in Chicago."  
  
"What's going on?" Mary asked, chagrined that Ryan was not in the least bit surprised when she told him where she was.  
  
"You have a witness to transport. Go to the local FTF office, Marshal Brooks will brief you. I have Don flying out to meet you later this afternoon."  
  
Mary ended the call chastising herself for thinking Ryan traced her credit cards. She should have known it was related to the assignment. She went back to the nurse's station to look for Bobby.  
  
He was waiting for her in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs looking suspiciously smug.  
  
"Dershowitz, when are you going back to the office?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at her friend.  
  
"Not for a few days. I am on leave pending psych evaluation," he said. "I will hang here until Mann is discharged. Why? Need a lift?" His expression turned into an evil smile.  
  
"Yeah, not leaving town as soon as I had hoped," she said, trying to control her irritation.  
  
"Let me guess, one of ours just became one of yours?"  
  
"You know I cannot confirm or deny that." It was now her turn to smile.  
  
"This song and dance is getting old, Shannon. We're on the same team."  
  
"I noticed you crossed over to the dark side." She shrugged.  
  
"Yeah, more perks and better hours," Bobby deadpanned. "C'mon. I'll drive you."  
  
  
Chief Brooks studied the Marshal in front of him. He had reviewed Mary Shannon's file before offering Marshall Mann the job at the FTF and knew about her abrupt reassignment from Albuquerque to Washington D.C. He had expected to meet Mary as soon as he heard that Marshall was injured during the takedown. He had no doubt Dershowitz called her before surrendering his and Mann's weapons and badges.  
  
Emmet Brooks prided himself in being a good judge of character. Mary's tough veneer did not fool him. He could see the pain in her eyes, despite her impressive ability to maintain her composure. He decided to push her a little.  
  
"The D.O.J. is in the process of drafting a deal with Jorge Ramos, the main runner of the Sinaloa Cartel cell shutdown in an operation last night. He is being held separately from his former associates for security reasons. You can expect to take custody in the next day or two," Brooks said, watching for a reaction.  
  
When there was none, he continued, "I spoke to O'Neill an hour ago. There's been a change of plans: Saunders had to handle an urgent matter in D.C., so you will have to run protective detail on the wife and the kids at a safe house with Shapiro and Das as your backup. Don will fly in Friday morning for the transfer. Any questions?"  
  
Mary shook her head, feigning indifference. "You have a desk for me here? I have threat assessments to run."  
  
"Take the back office across from Shapiro's. There is a computer you can use," the Chief said, curious at a lack of emotional response from the Marshal.  
  
  
  
After the CAT scan, the nurse's aide rolled Marshall back into his room. Bobby waited for him in the chair by the window.  
  
"How are you feeling, bro?" Bobby asked walking over to Marshall's bedside.  
  
"My head hurts a bit, but otherwise as well as could be expected."  
  
"You're ready to blow this joint?"  
  
"They want keep me for another twenty four hours for observation."  
  
"I talked to your doctor: if your scans are fine you don't have to stay here as long as I hang out with your sorry ass for the next few days. I figured I'd take you up on that offer for the pullout couch."  
  
"I'll be fine. I would not want to impose."  
  
"Look, I don't have anything better to do. Until Stevens from psych clears me, Brooks banned me from the office."  
  
"When is your appointment with her?"  
  
"Friday morning. Which reminds me: you will have to call her to make yours after you are cleared with medical."  
  
"Unfortunately, I know the drill," Marshall said, unconsciously rubbing right clavicle. "This isn't the first time I took a bullet..." He did not care to recall the circumstances of his first gunshot wound, but it seemed it was beyond his control. The images of the dilapidated diner flashed before his eyes. He saw Mary's grime covered and tear stained face. He heard his own voice telling her _"I'll try not to die, for you."_ He closed his eyes trying to banish the memories and shifted in his bed to get more comfortable.  
  
Now was as good time as any to tell Bobby about an offer he got from Brooks for a permanent assignment at Chicago FTF.  
  
"Emmet asked me to make the transfer permanent," Marshall said, opening his eyes. "Before this op went sideways, he wanted my decision by early next week."  
  
"I knew it. What are you going to do?" Bobby asked, trying to hide his excitement. He knew it would be a difficult decision for Marshall. But if he decided to go for it, Bobby would get a partner he wanted.  
  
"I planned to go to Albuquerque for the weekend so I could talk to Stan and Abigail. Now that flying is off limits for at least two weeks, I don't know what I am going to do. I haven't really had a chance to think about it yet."  
  
"Is Abigail coming out here?" Bobby asked, carefully watching his friend. He knew this was a sensitive issue, so he had to tread lightly if he wanted answers instead of being shot down.  
Marshall sighed and looked out the window at the Chicago skyline, avoiding Bobby's eyes.  
  
"This is insane. You haven't told her yet." Dershowitz stared at his friend in disbelief. "You've been out of pocket for almost twenty four hours…"  
  
"She's a cop just like you and me. She knows the drill," Marshall interrupted Bobby's outburst. "Let's get out of here."  
  
Marshall had to change the subject. He had not thought much about where his relationship with Abigail was going, and was not ready to share that with Bobby.  
  
The Marshals picked up the discharge paperwork from the nurse, and were at Marshall's place an hour later.  
  
Once settled in the master bedroom, Marshall took out his phone and stared at it as though if he looked at it long enough it would ring. He would welcome any distraction to put off making the call. The phone was silent. He sighed and hit the speed dial. After four rings, the call went to voicemail.  
  
 _"You have reached Abigail. I can't get to my phone right now. Please leave your message."_ He listened to his fiancée's chipper voice followed by the metallic tone of the answering service. "To leave a message press one or wait for the tone…"  
  
Marshall impatiently hit one. "Hi, honey," he said as soon as he heard the tone, "I was going to come back to Albuquerque for the weekend, but I cannot seem to get away. Unless something comes up, I should be home in two weeks. I will call again as soon as I can," he skipped a beat. "I love you."  
  
He closed his phone staring out of the window. He did not lie to his fiancée, he told himself. He just did not tell her the whole truth. But he frequently had to omit details of his assignments. That was part of the job. There was no reason to worry her: he was at his place not at the hospital, and Bobby volunteered to stay with him for a few days.  
  
Marshall knew he would have to go into the office with Bobby on Friday to file paperwork with his account of the events at the takedown and get his medical leave approval from the Chief.  
  
  
Nine. Road to Hell  
  
  
It took Jorge Ramos less than six hours to flip on his associates in exchange for a new life in witness protection. He would not have thought about testifying against the Cartel, had it not been for his children. Despite knowing what the Cartel could do to them if they were discovered, a chance at an honest living without a looming threat of deportation was worth a shot.  
  
"Take care of my family," he had told the A.U.S.A. who was called in for the deal, "then we talk."  
  
Since the Operation Chicago Blues had resulted in apprehension and indictment of thirty-nine individuals involved in the drug trade and money laundering as a part of the distribution network for the Sinaloa Cartel, the A.U.S.A. was motivated to talk, and while he was negotiating a deal, the investigation shifted to its next target: how to further upset the distribution network of the Cartel by leveraging the wholesale buyer who had been taken into custody at the Port along with Jorge Ramos and Luis Jimenez. Planning the new op would be Bobby's task, now that he had passed his psych evaluation, two days after the takedown.  
  
Having been out of the office, Dershowitz had not heard that it had been Ramos who cut a deal, but he was not surprised to see him and his attorney ensconced in the conference room at the Marshals Service. Bobby had figured one of the bigger fish from the takedown had flipped when Mary was ordered to report to his Chief. His assumptions were confirmed when he ran into Mary's new partner, Saunders, on the way into the office.  
  
Don flew in that morning to take care of all the transportation arrangements for Ramos while Mary put together contingency plans for Shapiro and Das to take the wife and the kids to the airport without her. There was substantially less risk going directly from the safe house to the airport; no point in asking for trouble by showing up at the office. Besides, Mary could use a reprieve from their constant barrage of demands.  
  
On its worst day, and Mary had very little doubt she had experienced her fair share of those, WITSEC was glorified babysitting. After three days at the safe house with the trophy wife and two brats, without her partner, Mary was ready to return to D.C. Lauren and Rick had done their best to back her up but they were trained for FTF, not WITSEC, and the brunt of dealing with the uprooted family fell on Mary's shoulders. Gripping her coffee mug, she studied the witness through the glass. He sat at the conference room table with his attorney, looking smug. After meeting his wife, Mary was certain that Jorge would be trouble.  
  
Even though Jorge did not expect much from the government after agreeing to testify against the Cartel, he was still surprised to be kept in a solitary for three days while the D.O.J. and his lawyer negotiated the terms of the deal. Immunity from all charges, legal permanent residence and complete asset forfeiture were on the table. Once the issues were resolved, Jorge finalized the deal. His life as a member of the Cartel had come to an end. The morning after he signed the papers, he was taken from his cell to the office of the Marshals Service where he met his attorney. She introduced him to the Marshals who would take him to safety and left.  
  
In preparation for the transport, Don wanted to make sure Jorge understood the gravity of his situation. If they were ambushed, the witness had to follow instructions without hesitation. Mary listened to her partner talk, while she focused on the thug. He was not paying nearly as much attention to Don's words as she would have liked. When Don was finished, Mary looked away from Jorge. She rose from her chair intent on finding out if Shapiro and Das secured the family at the airport and missed him reaching for his mug. Before she could lean away a brown stain decorated the chest of her pristine white shirt.  
  
  
Marshall walked into the Marshals Service office early Friday morning. After giving his statement, he had to fill out paperwork for his medical leave. He would not be cleared for active duty for at least another three weeks, his doctor said. If his concussion symptoms went away by the end of the second week, he could go back to work the desk.  
  
Logging on to his computer, he saw Mary in the conference room. He was surprised she was there, having thought she had left after storming out of his hospital room. Then he recognized the man sitting across from her at the table. Fitting that Ramos would flip on his associates. Marshall always suspected Jorge was the weakest link in that chain. Ironic, he thought, that Mary and Don would be assigned to relocate this dirt bag.  
  
The blinds in the conference room were open, and Marshall could not help but watch Mary work. He had seen her go through this routine time and time again over the years, sitting by her side. It was odd to observe it from outside. Seeing her so soon after their fight, Marshall realized he could not let her leave without clearing the air. After two days of beating himself up over treating her the way he had, he needed to know where he stood. It would not do either of them any good if he was holding on to something she had let go.  
  
Marshall was about to print the forms when he heard the door to the conference room fly open. Looking up, he saw Mary rushing out with a curse, her shirt ruined. Marshall figured she was headed for the restroom. If he was going to talk to her, now was his chance. He rose from his chair and followed her out.  
  
Mary angrily pulled open the door to the ladies room and rushed to the sink. She practically ripped the jacket off her shoulders and tried to dab off the offensive stain. _"This is just great,"_ she thought, _"I'm going to be wet, cold and dirty until we get to the jet."_ Her mood soured when she realized she ran out of clean shirts in her go bag. She would have to settle for a tank-top instead. Leaving the restroom, she slammed the door, ready for a final throw down with Ramos. Her patience for him had worn thin. Rushing out into the hall, she did not notice Marshall and ran right into him.  
  
"Watch it, buddy," she ground through her teeth, and then froze, realizing she was held firmly against a familiar chest.  
  
"Marshall," she gasped. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
"You were about to fall. I caught you." He said, releasing her, and took a step back to lean against the wall.  
  
Mary narrowed her eyes at Marshall.  
  
"No I wasn't," she said, glaring at him. "I was on my way to finish the prep for the transfer."  
  
"Something tells me Don can handle that."  
  
His tone was aloof, but his eyes betrayed him. It was no coincidence that she bumped into him in this dim hallway, Mary realized. She stared at him, taken aback, struggling to understand his apparent change of heart. Three days ago at the hospital he made it clear he could not stand the sight of her. Now he wanted to talk. He could not have picked a worse time or place to have this conversation.  
  
"What do you want, Marshall?" she asked, bracing herself for what came next.  
  
"Answers, Mare," Marshall said, keeping his tone even.  
  
Mary did not know what she wanted more: to shove or hug him for using her old nickname, but did neither and said nothing, which he took it as an invitation to continue.  
  
"Why did you leave Albuquerque?"  
  
"Not beating around the bush anymore, huh, Marshall?" She fired back, unable to break eye contact.  
  
"Tell me, Mare. I need to know. Why did you leave? And I am not buying that you had to," he said, intent on getting a real answer to his question. He had spent the last six months trying to figure it out, but nothing he came up with made any sense.  
  
Mary looked down to study the tile pattern of the floor of the hallway. She noticed Marshall was wearing a pair of boots she had not seen before.  
  
"I left because it was for the best," she said, looking up.  
  
Mary let her gaze roam his lanky form. She had forgotten how good he looked. Even now, less than a week after his shooting, tired and upset, he was ruggedly handsome. Mary stopped herself. Nothing good could possibly come out of her thinking about him this way.  
  
"Did you mean what you said?"  
  
His question interrupted her train of thought.  
  
"Now you lost me." Mary said, feigning confusion. If there was a slightest chance he was asking about something else, she was going to take it.  
  
"At the engagement party, when you repeated my toast nearly verbatim, did you mean what you said?"  
  
Mary sighed deeply. Focusing her gaze on the wall over Marshall's shoulder she said, "It does not matter, whether I meant or did not mean it."  
  
"Mary, look at me," Marshall said, taking a step closer and tilting her chin up with his index finger. "It matters to me."  
  
"Of course I meant it," she said looking up, but still avoiding his eyes. "You are my best friend."  
  
Marshall raked his hand through his hair, as though he did not know what to make of her answer. He had trouble accepting that, after all these years, with everything they had been through, she had missed the true meaning of his toast.  
  
"It was good to see you, Mare," he said with a sigh. "Have a safe flight back."  
  
He pushed off the wall and was out of sight in a few long strides before she could respond.  
  
"Take care," she whispered after him, lingering in the empty hallway.  
  
She wondered if she had made a mistake not telling him the truth. Snapping out of it, she made her way back to the conference room, stealing glances around the office. Marshall was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"The security detail and the decoys are ready. Shapiro checked in, the subjects are secured on the jet. We don't have much time. Let's get moving," Don said, gesturing to the door.  
  
Mary glared at the witness for good measure. This guy was no law abiding citizen and hell would freeze over before she treated him like one.  
  
"Now would be a great time to leave, if you want to make that flight, Ramos," Mary said, staring him down.  
  
Jorge returned the glare, but decided against making a snide remark. The blonde Marshal looked fierce, but he was more concerned with her partner who was built like a tank. Ramos shifted uncomfortably under the Marshals' scrutiny, but looked back defiantly reminding himself that they were there for his safety.  
  
Mary glanced at her partner, making sure he was on the same page with her: they would have to teach this guy a lesson. They hustled him out of the office to the truck. The trip to the airport went off without a setback and the Learjet was airborne five minutes after their arrival.  
  
Don chose a seat by the cockpit and started working on the intake paperwork. He always had his laptop with him on the off chance he had time to do the routine work on the road. He was so focused on the task, he did not notice a situation escalating until he heard Mary's irritated voice.  
  
"A beer? Does this look like Aeromexico? If you're thirsty, you can have water."  
  
"I don't understand why I can't have a beer," Ramos insisted.  
  
Don closed his laptop, put it carefully away and rose from his seat.  
  
"Sit back and shut your mouth or I will shut it for you," he said approaching the witness with a grim expression. "Pay attention, I will not repeat myself twice. If you want to make it in the program, you do what you are told when you are told to do it. Is that clear?"  
  
"Mommy, I think I am going to be sick," a shrill voice of a toddler interrupted Don's angry diatribe.  
  
"Here," Mary said, giving the wife a paper bag, "I'll be right back."  
  
Mary walked over to a small fridge in the back and grabbed a bottle of water. Last thing they needed was a child throwing up all over the jet. On this trip, Mary had gotten her fill of excitement for a few weeks to come and was looking forward to routine witness visits and paperwork. Admittedly, she was more than a little concerned that Don had to handle Cynthia Chen going AWOL on his own. She had warned Ryan about Chen's family less than a week ago; the teenager was bad news. Despite the Chief's assurance that Chens relocated without a hitch, she decided to grill Donnie on the details as soon as they finished with Ramos and his family. She needed a distraction to keep her mind from wandering back to Marshall.

  
Ten. The Space Between  
  
  
Marshall had passed the psych evaluation with flying colors a week and a half after the injury and would have started riding the desk, had it not been for Brooks. Until Marshall was fully cleared, he was not to show his face at the office. The Chief put a block on his badge and the building security on notice not to key in Inspector Mann.  
  
"If McQueen wants you on desk duty, it's his call," Brooks had told him, "But I will not have that on my conscience. Take as much time as you need to recover a hundred percent, and then give me an answer. I want you on my team permanently."  
  
Marshall had no choice, but to stay home or take leisurely walks in the Grant Park or around the Loop. Running or any other strenuous physical activity had to be limited. In order for his brain to heal faster the doctor recommended Marshall refrain from mentally demanding activities, which included watching television, computer and reading time. Following doctor's orders did not leave much to occupy Marshall's agile mind: he was left with his thoughts. His mind kept replaying the last conversation he had had with Mary. Once again, she had dodged the question why she left Albuquerque. He was desperately trying to understand why his best friend insisted he was better off without her. It made no sense, but the stubborn woman refused to give him closure.  
  
After two weeks alone at his apartment in Chicago, Marshall was going stir crazy. The concussion symptoms subsided, but he was ordered to stay out of the field for another week pending complete physical clearance. The doctor lifted the restriction on air travel, so Marshall caught a flight out to Albuquerque.  
  
Marshall walked into his house in the early morning. The bed in the master bedroom was made and Abigail was out. He realized he did not know what shifts she took lately. He called her cell. When she did not pick up, he left a message that he had returned home. He still had not mentioned his injury to her. His hair had not grown in completely and he knew she would notice the scar right away. He was not looking forward to that conversation, but thought it would be a good segue for bringing up the job offer in Chicago.  
  
Marshall left his go bag in the laundry room, kicked off his boots and went back to the master bedroom. His head had started to hurt during the descent into Albuquerque and did not get better in the car. He decided to get some sleep.  
  
A while later, Marshall felt the bed dip. Opening his bleary eyes, he saw Abigail. She looked so happy to see him; his heart ached for the pain he had caused her for the last few months.  
  
"Hi, Sugar Bug," she whispered, getting comfortable next to him. "I wish you had told me you were coming home today. I would have rearranged my schedule."  
  
"Hi," he said softly, pulling her against him. "It's no big deal. I will be home for a little while."  
  
She buried her head in his neck and inhaled deeply. "I've missed you so much."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry." Marshall turned and hugged her.  
  
Abigail pulled back to look at him and saw the stitches. "Marshall, what's that?" she asked, gently touching his temple.  
  
Marshall set up against the headboard. "It's just a graze."  
  
"You were shot? When?" Her tone was incredulous. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"Two weeks ago. But, honey, you know I can't tell you much about the op."  
  
Abigail was off the bed in an instant, glaring at him.  
  
"Marshall, this has nothing to do with the op. I should have been notified when you were injured."  
  
Marshall watched as she started pacing the room. He had a hard time recognizing Abigail in the angry woman in front of him.  
  
"Honey, please," he said trying to diffuse the tension. "It was nothing. A scratch and a concussion."  
  
"Clearly, we do not agree on the definition of _nothing_. Getting shot in the head is a big deal in my book, Marshall. I wish you'd told me. I would have flown out to wherever you were."  
  
"Abby, I didn't want to worry you. I knew you would insist on flying out there and I didn't want you to go through that. I wasn't at a hospital that long. A friend looked after me for the first few days, and then I was fine on my own."  
  
"Still, you should have told me. It should have been my choice to make. I am your fiancée..." Her large hazel eyes filled with tears as she looked at him with reproach.  
  
"Why did a friend take care of you when it should have been me?"  
  
She stopped pacing abruptly as if stricken by a revelation. She raised her hands and rubbed the teardrops off her cheeks. The hurt he saw in her eyes only seconds earlier was replaced with anger.  
  
"All your assignments had mostly been out of town lately. You've worked in D.C. and Mary was that friend, wasn't she?"  
  
Marshall could not believe what Abigail was insinuating. It was his turn to get angry. He rose from the bed and turned away from her silently to pull on a shirt and a pair of jeans. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts, wondering if a relationship without trust was even worth salvaging. He realized he had no one to blame but himself for Abigail's insecurity. His extended trips had contributed to eroding the trust in their relationship. He had to try restoring it if it was not too late. Turning around, he stepped close to his fiancée and placed his hands on her shoulders.  
  
"No, Abigail. I was not in D.C. I was in Chicago. I was working on the Operation Chicago Blues that headlined all major national news last week." His voice automatically adopted the tone he used when dealing with distressed witnesses.  
  
Abigail closed her eyes recognizing the tone. She had heard it before when they responded to a domestic disturbance call placed by a wife of a soldier with PTSD. Marshall talked Sue down in a similar fashion. "Great", Abigail thought, _"I've become a situation to be handled."_ She felt his warm hands on her shoulders. He meant to provide comfort, but her body rebelled against his touch. Tears were burning the back of her eyelids. With all self-control she could muster, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes to look into his.  
  
Doing her best to match his tone, she said, "So, a friend who took care of you, who was it then?"  
  
Marshall dropped his hands from her shoulders. She was not going to let it go. He had a bad feeling about the direction of the conversation, but did not want to lie to her any more than he absolutely had to. He had done enough damage to continue on that path.  
  
"My temporary partner, Robert Dershowitz stayed with me. You may have heard of him, he used to be a detective at APD and transferred into Chicago branch of the Marshals Service a few years back."  
  
Abigail nodded, but saw though his attempt to direct the conversation away from his recovery to his partner. There was more to the story that Marshall let on.  
  
"Stayed with you? Where exactly?"  
  
Marshall sighed and leaned on the back of a chair for support. He intended to tell Abigail about the apartment when they discussed his job offer, but he did not envision this conversation going quite this poorly.  
  
"I've rented an apartment in Chicago a few months back when I took the assignment."  
  
"You what?" Abigail stared at him slack jawed. "You got a place in Chicago? When were you planning to tell me?"  
  
Marshall raked his hand though his hair, uncertain how to respond to her question. Every word he had said so far was escalating the situation despite his best efforts to diffuse it. She searched his eyes for reassurance, but saw hesitation instead.  
  
"You weren't going to tell me," Abigail said, looking away from him.  
  
"Of course I was," he said releasing the chair he was leaning on, "as soon as the operation concluded."  
  
Maybe she would see the situation from his point of view if he could make her look into his eyes. He reached for her, but Abigail took a step back and started pacing again.  
  
"I'm sorry, Marshall, but that makes absolutely no sense. If the op is complete there is no reason for you to go back to Chicago."  
  
Her tone was uncertain, quizzical, as if she was trying to put together a puzzle and the pieces did not fit into place.  
  
"I was offered a permanent place on the Fugitive Task Force based out of Chicago. If I take it…"  
  
She did not let him finish. "When did you get that job offer?" she asked, turning to face him.  
  
"A few days before the final phase of the op," Marshall said, furrowing his eyebrows. He had to recall the sequence of events in the last few weeks to figure out the first time Brooks had brought up the subject of the transfer.  
  
"Three weeks ago…"  
  
"Three weeks?" Abigail repeated in disbelief. "You didn't think to mention it earlier?"  
  
"I have not been reinstated to active duty yet. The Chief gave me another week or two to decide…"  
  
"Good for you…"  
  
"Abby, even if I accept you don't have to relocate right away."  
  
"Right, I can just stay here, like a good girl I've been, and wait for God knows what. I don't think I know who you are anymore, Marshall Mann."  
  
Abigail turned away, her shoulders sagging, and rushed out of the bedroom.  
  
Marshall hesitated only for a moment before going after her. He had no problem finishing this conversation in the living room. As he padded from the bedroom barefoot, he heard the front door slam. Not bothering to get his boots from the laundry room where he had left them earlier, he rushed out in time to see Abigail peeling out of the driveway. He walked back inside, deciding to give her time to cool off. On his way to the kitchen, he noticed a small object lying on a glass side table. This was a curve ball Marshall did not expect: Abigail had left her ring.  
  
  
Eleven. Consequences  
  
  
 _"They both left me. First Mary. Now Abigail."_  
  
Marshall had no idea how long he had sat in the living room studying the ring that lay in the palm of his right hand. He absently rubbed the edge of the diamond with his left index finger wondering how something so tiny could weigh so much. It was odd really; to sit in their house holding a symbol of a lifetime commitment that would now never come to be.  
  
"A promise broken," he thought, letting the air leave his lungs. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair as his fingers clenched into a fist around the ring. He felt the sting from the prongs of the setting bite into his hand, and was grateful to feel something. Physical pain was better than feeling nothing at all.  
  
As Marshall tried to make sense of the breakup with Abigail, his thoughts drifted to a band of precious metal that got stuck on his ring finger three… Or was it four years ago? That gaudy bauble was nothing like the ring he had in the palm of his hand but had caused him an inordinate amount of pain, or so he had thought at the time. Little did he know then; that pain had been nothing compared to what he had to live with for the last seven months. Mary. Even now, numb from shock over his fiancée walking out on him, he could not help but think of his old partner.  
  
 _"I'm damaged goods. Worthless waste of oxygen..."_  
  
He grimaced, and unclenched his fist. The light reflected off the rock and glared into his eyes. He flipped it and looked at the engraving inside. _"Abigail, Amour de ma vie,"_ he mouthed as if trying to understand the meaning of the phrase. The irony of the inscription did not elude him: the love of his life. It was not Abigail. Never had been. His fiancée, or rather ex-fiancée had always been an afterthought. He tried to make it work with her while Mary was around. His last resort to have a family that he thought he had wanted. As long as Mary was a part of his life as his friend and partner, he was willing to settle down with another woman. Once Mary had left, his world unraveled.  
  
Now, Marshall had a really good idea about the pain Mary must have endured after her father had left. There was one significant difference, with which he could not reconcile himself. Mary had had hope that her father would come back one day; as fickle as that hope had been, it helped her keep her head above water. He held no such delusions. Mary left him without any intent to return. She made that abundantly clear in their last conversation. Her words held one meaning while her actions told quite another. She had thrown their eight-year partnership away like a rotten dishrag. She walked away without looking back. And actions had always mattered more to him than words. He had been able to take her verbal abuse for years because her actions had shown that she cared.  
  
 _"What had changed? What have I done to drive her away…? To deserve this?"_  
  
Marshall sighed and rose from the chair. He put the ring back into its black velvet box and shoved it into the top drawer of his desk. He was under no delusion that Abigail would accept it back. This was a long time coming. In his mind's eye he saw her hazel eyes filling with tears one moment and shooting pins and needles the next. He had never imagined that Abigail, his happy mild mannered girl, could turn into a fire-breathing fury. He had driven her to that edge, he admitted solemnly. His denial and reluctance to deal with his issues unleashed a monster. He had been mistreating Abigail for months without a second thought despite Bobby's repeated attempts to get him to see the error of his ways.  
  
Abigail's parting words, _"I don't think I know who you are anymore, Marshall Mann,"_ rang in his ears. Marshall walked into the bathroom and stared at his own reflection in the mirror.  
  
 _"Who are you, Mann?"_  
  
This was a question he could not answer either. He turned cold water on and splashed it on his face, then pulled a towel off the rack and buried his face in it. The faint hint of lavender hit his nostrils. Abigail had made their house into a home with little touches like these herbal dryer sachets she added to every load of laundry. And he had been so bitter after Mary transferred that he had stopped paying attention to the details. He did the same thing to Abigail, as Mary did to him. He took out his wrath on the woman that did nothing but love him, by neglecting and ignoring her. She deserved better than he was able to give.  
  
It was getting late, but Abigail had not returned home. Marshall made his way into the garage to take out the trash. Pulling the bin out of the nook, he noticed the lid on the glass recycling box was tightly shut. The Albuquerque sanitation department did not collect glass at the curbside. Both Abigail and Marshall were mindful of waste reduction, so they routinely took glass to a collection site once a month. The normal day was in another week or so. Marshall left the trash bin in the middle of the garage floor and walked over to the box. After kicking open the lid, he peered inside. Shocked, he took out his phone and called Leigh-Anne.  
  
"Anne, I need a favor," he said after they exchanged greetings. "Please run Abigail's cards for the last month and call me back."  
  
"Marshall? What happened?" Her voice was laced with concern.  
  
"I don't have time to explain. I will fill you in later, I promise."  
  
She heard the near desperation in his tone, agreed quickly and ended the call. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned to the trash bin, lost in thought. He had to find Abigail tonight. Having been absorbed in his own miserable world, he missed the obvious signs of distress in his fiancée. He should have seen it coming from a mile away as a trained marshal with the Witness Protection program. He had failed Abigail in more ways than one. If something happened to her, he would never forgive himself.  
  
Leigh-Anne called back when Marshall was in his truck on the way to the office. He hit the button on his hands-free to accept the call with a little more force than necessary.  
  
"I'm on my way in. Please tell me you have something."  
  
"Yes, I do." Leigh-Anne paused, clicking through the most recent transactions. She decided against telling him she saw over three hundred dollars posted to Abigail's account from ABQ Discount Liquors in the last month. It was a matter best discussed in a private face to face conversation.  
  
"There was a pre-authorization on Abigail's VISA from Zinc. No charge has been posted yet."  
  
"Uh-huh, thanks," he said, making a wide left turn and heading in the direction of the bar. "I'm going over there and won't be in tomorrow."  
  
"You're not cleared to come in anyway."  
  
"I was going to talk to Stan, but I have to take care of this first."  
  
"Okay. Call me if you need anything."  
  
"I will. Thanks."  
  
"Marshall, I mean it. I don't care if it is day, night, or whatever."  
  
"I know."  
  
Marshall disconnected the call and pulled into a parking spot. He rushed out of the truck, scanning the lot for Abigail's car. It was not there. He prayed she had not left the bar yet.  
  
Getting from the truck to the entrance took no more than thirty steps, but they seemed to have taken forever. It was as if the door was moving away from him as he approached. The heels of his boots rapped on the blacktop, then marble. Sidestepping the hostess, Marshall walked into the dimly lit space and saw her immediately.  
  
Abigail sat on a stool at the tall cocktail table in the middle of the bar, surrounded by a few lawyer types. Between sips, she was twirling the stem of her wine glass and giggling at their jokes. Her cheeks were flushed and eyes sparkling. She was not drunk yet, but by the predatory looks from the guys around her, Marshall could tell she was not on her first glass.  
  
"Party's over, gentlemen," he said, approaching the table. "Abby, honey, let's go home."  
  
He saw anger flare up in her eyes.  
  
"Don't you honey me, Marshall! I'm not ready to go home."  
  
"Yeah, Marshall, leave the lady alone. Can't you see she's busy?" one of the guys said, taking a step in front of Marshall.  
  
"I strongly advise you against interfering," Marshall said, glancing at the overconfident slightly inebriated prick. The guy was more heavily built than the others and obviously considered himself to be the alpha male of the pack.  
  
"Abby, please. We need to talk."  
  
"I'm done talking. I'm having fun for the first time in months. I will come home when I am ready to come home."  
  
"Run along, cowboy. Abby doesn't want to talk to you," the guy said, giving Marshall a light shove.  
  
Marshall's temper flared up instantly. In a flash, he had the guy whimpering in a wrist lock.  
  
"Big mistake. Huge. You have just assaulted a US Marshal, asshole. I can cuff you and have you booked in about five minutes. Now, because I'm feeling particularly generous tonight, I am going to let this go and give you a minute to close out the tab before you leave. Deal?"  
  
Seeing as his buddies scattered as soon as they heard the words assault, the guy nodded. His self-confidence evaporated faster than air rushing out of a popped balloon. He walked away, cradling his wrist and bruised ego.  
  
"Abigail, I'm taking you home. Please don't make me carry you out of here."  
  
Gently supporting her by the elbow, Marshall helped her off the barstool and walked her out.  
  
Twelve. Intervention  
  
  
"Halfcaf, triple cap, heavy foam," Leigh-Anne said, setting a large coffee cup in front of Marshall. She had stopped to pick up coffee and Danishes on the way to the office. "Walk with me, partner."  
  
"Anne, not that I don't appreciate everything you've done for me in the past couple of days… But don't you think it's a little early for an intervention?" Marshall asked, following her out to the terrace.  
  
"Don't be silly, when time is of the essence, early morning will do," Leigh-Anne said, pulling a chair from under the cast iron table. She had a feeling Marshall was not going to like the conversation she had in mind. "How is Abigail holding up?"  
  
"As good as she could be under the circumstances, I guess," Marshall said, looking at the Albuquerque skyline over Leigh-Anne's head. "She is at her mother's house in Texas."  
  
"Poor girl… For a smart guy, you can be such a schmuck, Marshall."  
  
"Is this is really necessary, Anne? You don't think I know that already?" Marshall asked in frustration, glaring at her as he struggled to keep his temper in check. He did not need her to remind him of his failing, he was doing a fine job of beating himself up over the situation with his ex-fiancée without her help.  
  
"Necessary? Feh!" Unperturbed by his reaction, Leigh-Anne continued. "Would I bring it up if it wasn't? Which reminds me, are you taking the job in Chicago?"  
  
"I haven't decided what I am doing yet," Marshall said, pulling apart the cardboard cuff of his coffee cup.  
  
"You were reinstated to active duty last Monday, which means you have what? Two days left? Did you talk to Stan?"  
  
"Not really. I may have mentioned it a while back, but as you can imagine I haven't had much time the last few days…" He sighed.  
  
"No, I suppose not. Now you do and you are putting it off again. You realize, he's waiting for you to start that conversation, right? What's going on in that head of yours?"  
  
"I don't want to move to Chicago," Marshall said, staring into his cup. "But I don't know if I have it in me to stay in Albuquerque." He looked over at his partner to see if she understood his dilemma.  
  
"You are making it sound as though it's an either or decision. You don't want to go to Chicago? Or join the Fugitive Task Force? Don't. Stay with WITSEC, see how it goes. If you find you can't stay in Albuquerque, you can transfer to another office then. Tackle one thing at a time."  
  
Leigh-Anne fell silent, giving him time to gather his thoughts. She took a sip of her coffee and waited. While he was in Chicago, recovering from his gunshot wound, she had done most of her witness visits with Delia. The younger Marshal was an untapped well of information. All Leigh-Anne had to do was give a gentle nudge and let Delia take over the conversation. In four weeks, she had gotten more information about everyone at the APD and ABQ WITSEC than she cared to remember, except the details that involved either Mary or Marshall.  
  
Leigh-Anne learned with dismay that Mary had gotten pregnant and Marshall largely filled the shoes of a surrogate father in the absence of Mary's ex-husband. She was surprised that Mary contemplated giving up the baby for adoption, and saddened that Mary's son died due to an unfortunate set of circumstances that caused premature labor. She did not need to be told to know that Marshall had been the glue that held Mary together through the ordeal. From the bottomless fountain of office gossip Delia served her, Leigh figured out that Mary had finally realized her feelings for Marshall at some point during her pregnancy or shortly thereafter, which, unfortunately for both of them, coincided with his engagement to Abigail. Well aware of Mary's penchant for self-sacrifice, Leigh had little doubt as to the reason for Mary's abrupt departure from Albuquerque.  
  
Leigh-Anne had known of Marshall's fondness of Mary well before he was ready to admit his feelings to himself. Before the accident, but after his transfer to Albuquerque, they had managed to stay close and talk often. She had put her family before her career in the Marshals Service, and while Marshall respected her choice, he suspected she was not quite happy with the way it turned out at the time. She used to laugh that she got her dose of fieldwork by living vicariously through his cases. He did not divulge any confidential information of course, but Leigh was an expert in poking holes in his contingency plans and he took full advantage of her abilities.  
  
The first time Leigh-Anne met Mary was at Joey's baptism. Leigh and Sal had asked Marshall to be their son's godfather, which he happily accepted. Mary and Marshall flew into Tampa for a few days and Leigh really took to Marshall's new partner. _"I see why you like her,"_ she had told him. _"Mary's got a spark that few people have. Hold on to that, Marshall."_ He only laughed in response. He had thought he was good at hiding his feelings.  
  
The next time Leigh saw Mary was at the funeral. She remembered little from that day, but Mary and Marshall's presence helped her keep the last shreds of sanity. She hung onto them for dear life through the service, while her own mother and sisters sobbed inconsolably.  
  
Leigh took another pull from her coffee to shake off the memories. She preferred to remember her family on happier occasions. But right now she had to focus on Marshall. He was there for her in her darkest hours, when she needed him most and it was high time to return the favor.  
  
"Hey, where'd you go?" Marshall asked, noticing Leigh's sudden change of expression.  
  
"Just mulling over a few things," she said, pausing to regain composure. "Remember when Sal and Joey passed, you told me there were times to mourn and times to rebuild? That I had to allow myself to grieve, and then find strength to persevere?"  
  
He nodded and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to understand where she was going with these memories.  
  
"Marshall, you've always been stronger than me, more resilient. Why have you given up? You're mourning a relationship you ought to be chasing."  
  
"Abby and I…"  
  
"I'm not talking about Abigail, Marshall," she said with a shrug. "You are grieving over Mary instead of going after her. You ought to have talked to her right after your engagement party."  
  
He flinched at the mention of Mary as if Leigh had slapped him and she knew her words had hit the mark.  
  
"Mary left…" he said, looking up from his cup startled. "Wait. How do you know about this?"  
  
"Oh, Marshall, Marshall." She sighed. "While you were busy getting shot in Chicago, I've been covering your witnesses with Delia. She's a bigger yenta than my Gran Rosenberg."  
  
He groaned, threading his fingers through his hair. "I should have known. You know what Mary called her?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "Water Cooler. But yenta fits… I think Mary would have liked that too."  
  
"There's no escaping the roots. I bring a piece of Flushing with me wherever I go." Leigh said and gave him a soft smile. "Keeps me sane."  
  
"Mary came to Chicago, Leigh." Distraught, he used the old nickname. "My temporary partner, Bobby, whom we both know from Albuquerque, called her after the op. She came to the hospital… and I blew it."  
  
"Blew it? Are you listening to yourself, Marshall? Mary flew in from D.C. when she heard you got shot. How much more proof do you need?"  
  
"I saw her at the office a few days after that. I know what you are implying, but I asked her point blank if she meant it when she said that she loved me."  
  
"I am not implying anything. I'm telling it to you straight. Mary is in love with you," Leigh said, stressing every word.  
  
Resigned, he looked up at the sky. "She told me that I was her best friend."  
  
"What did you expect her to say? You were engaged to another woman. If anything Mary can lay a claim to, it's integrity. She would never put you in a position to choose between her and your fiancée. Ever heard a phrase: if you love something set it free? Case in point."  
  
"I think you are wrong. In fact, I know you are. I took enough chances, I laid my heart bare to her and she ran for the hills. Most recently, with an arrogant asshole, that I loathed no less."  
  
"What can I tell you? Everyone is entitled to an epiphany."  
  
"I still think you are wrong, Anne."  
  
"There's only one way to find out. What have you got to lose?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, how about my dignity?"  
  
"Dignity-schmignity. Maybe I should call your mother and have her talk sense into you."  
  
"Fine! You think I should go to D.C.? I will, but when it goes south I am holding you personally responsible," he said, rising from his chair. "I have to go talk to Stan and call Emmet. I have a job offer to turn down."  
  
"Smart man."  
  
Leigh-Anne smiled, watching her partner leave the terrace with a purpose. She could tell from the line of his shoulders and his gait that he was determined to give his relationship with Mary another chance. This Marshall she knew well, she was happy to see him back again.  
  
As soon as she saw Marshall engage Stan in a conversation in his office, Leigh-Anne returned to her desk and picked up the phone.  
  
"Good Morning. This is Inspector Eldridge from the Albuquerque office," she said to the receptionist, who answered the main line at the Washington D.C. Marshals Service office. "I would like to speak to Inspector Shannon."

  
Thirteen. In Vino Veritas  
  
"Get your jacket, let's get out of here," Don said, bumping Mary's desk with his hip on the way to the door.  
  
"Hate when you do that." She looked away from her screen, fixing him a glare, and noticed his smirk. "Did this on purpose, you smug son of a bitch? Hell will freeze over before I go anywhere with you."  
  
"Well, it is getting chilly in here."  
  
"Shouldn't you be going home to Emily and the kids?"  
  
"The boss wanted you to come to dinner on Sunday, but I told her you were difficult this week. She suggested you and I go for a pint instead. Smart woman, my wife."  
  
"Not that smart, if she's married to you," she said, turning back to her computer. "If you think I was difficult this week, you've seen nothing yet."  
  
"Harsh." He skipped a beat. "I'll keep it simple for you, Shannon. Three words: free, food, beer. Move it!"  
  
"Jeez, learn to count, numb nuts. That was five words," she said, logging off her system.  
  
Don held the elevator, waiting. He was glad he was able to get a rise out of his partner. She usually felt bad after ragging on him and shared something she had no intention to when the conversation started. Don needed to get Mary out of the office this evening and talk before shit hit the fan tomorrow. He had no doubt Bradley Lipton logged a complaint against her for talking sense into him in a way that was uniquely Mary. Having a short-fused partner was not without its perks when they dealt with criminals, but not so with entitled jerks like Brad.  
  
The Liptons were not a good fit for the program. Brad, a corporate patent litigator from L.A., was forced to sell his share in his firm to the other partners and enter Witness Protection program because his wife practiced her tai-chi in a park at a wrong time. He resented her for disturbing their way of life, the A.U.S.A. for not getting them better established, and every Marshal they met simply for being assigned to their case. He was used to people catering to his every whim and had no desire to adjust his expectations. D.C. was the Lipton's third relocation.  
  
When Ellen Lipton called two days ago to let them know that Brad had run into his law school buddies at the Stonewall Golf Club at Lake Manassas, he was not surprised. He was even less surprised that, after scrambling to put the relocation in motion, Mary blew a fuse when Brad vocalized his discontent with their future home in a considerably colder climate in much smaller metropolitan area.  
  
This incident would surely be reported to the Chief and Don did not know if he would be able to run interference between the two. There was no question he would have to because Ryan was as much of a hothead as Mary when he got riled up and Don could not, in good conscience, place all the blame for the incident on his partner. Brad needed to hear what she had to say, even if that took having him face flat against the wall in a wristlock. Trying to figure out what to tell O'Neill to get him off their backs and stuff Mary's reprimand into a circular file, Don almost missed Mary joining him in the elevator.  
  
"Stop daydreaming, Donnie-boy," she said, assaulting the first floor button. "You're buying? What gives?"  
  
"I've put up with your shit long enough. You're letting your hair down tonight even if I have to cuff you to a fucking barstool."  
  
"And how do you propose I do that if I'm cuffed to a barstool, smartass?"  
  
"A kick-ass Marshal like you? You'll figure it out."  
  
"Fine, but I'm not going to some dive with you."  
  
Don dragged her to the Dubliner because he liked old Irish pubs, Amber Ale and Shepherd's pie. Mary did not argue because one, he was buying, and two, hanging out with him was better than sitting in her apartment alone, staring at the bare walls. She still had not bothered to hook up her cable or furnish the place beyond the basics.  
  
Mary needed to figure out what she was going to do with her life. She had not even made an attempt, as if she was waiting for something, a sign of sorts. So far, she had gotten nothing. She had spent the last seven months in D.C. and it still felt as alien to her as if she had arrived yesterday. She loathed admitting that she had left her heart in Albuquerque even to herself. She missed the wide open vistas, the clear air, the red and green chilies, the Sunshine building… She tried not to think much about people whom she had left behind. Some days she succeeded, although, since her trip to Chicago, those days were few and far between.  
  
Mary contemplated a call that she had missed that morning: an Inspector Eldridge from Albuquerque office had tried to reach her. Curious, she had called back, but neither Stan nor this Inspector was available. Mary had no idea who Inspector Eldridge was and had to wait until tomorrow to find out. Waiting was her one of her least favorite things, second only to surprises. She sighed and took a swig from her beer.  
  
If she was honest with herself, she stuck it out on the East Coast this long because she wanted to prove that she could. Perhaps working herself to the bone was not the best idea she had had. Then again, lately she had few good ideas. The transfer itself had been a mistake and the trip to Chicago proved to be a disaster.  
  
Mary had to get out of the hole into which she had dug herself. It was starting to reflect on her job performance: she had overreacted to Brad's speech. In hindsight, twisting the arrogant asshole into a pretzel was far from an ideal course of action, which would surely earn her and Don another reprimand. Not that she cared much about the number of reprimands in her file, but Don did not deserve to get dragged down into her mess. Mary sighed and finished her beer.  
  
"Are you ready for another round?" Don asked, picking up a wing from a plate in front of them. He stayed silent for the most part of the hour since they had arrived to the pub, giving Mary time to work through whatever it was that bothered her before he broached the subject of impending face-off with Ryan.  
  
"Yeah, why not." Her tone was flat, but the tired undertones did not go unnoticed by her partner. She was running on fumes, he realized. The incident with Brad was simply the last drop in the bucket.  
  
Their beer arrived. Don raised his pint and said, "Slainte!"  
  
"Jesus, you're such a cliché. How Emily puts up with your antics is beyond me."  
  
"It's a little thing called love, Shannon. I'm sure even you have heard of it." He saw her expression darken and realized he had unknowingly hit a nerve. Cursing himself for setting off her alarms, he waved over a bartender and ordered two shots of scotch.  
  
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked, tiredly rubbing her temples.  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it. God forbid you let your guard down and tell me something about yourself."  
  
"Fine, I'll bite. What do you want to know that you already don't?"  
  
"What has gotten into you? I mean, you're known for your sunny disposition, and by sunny I mean the fiery pits of Hades, but your brooding has curdled milk in my coffee for the last few weeks."  
  
"You don't drink much coffee lately."  
  
"My cutting down on caffeine is so not the point. Don't change the subject." Don saw the conversation was making his partner uncomfortable. Since Mary had not told him to piss off, he took it as a sign to continue.  
  
"You know, I always have your back, Mary. But I have to say, you make it incredibly difficult with stunts like you pulled with Brad."  
  
"Look, that ass wipe had it coming."  
  
"Uh-huh. And the complaint he filed will hit Ryan's desk tomorrow. It's going to get ugly."  
  
"Oh, wittle Donnie is afraid of the Chief? Why didn't you just say so? Sit this one out and let me do the talking," she said, slamming her glass on the bar.  
  
"Mary, when you go off the deep end, it's not just your badge. Mine is on the line too. I need to know what's going on with you so I can act accordingly."  
  
He was right, she knew. After seven months, she was surprised he had not called her on her behavior earlier. Don was a decent guy who put up with her and did not ask for much in return. If she was to move on from her life in Albuquerque, she had to make this partnership work.  
  
Mary swiveled around on her bar stool to look at him and said, "I'm going to tell you this once, but we will never discuss it again." She paused, rubbing her temples. "I made a mistake of mixing my personal life with my professional one. I thought I had taken care of it when I transferred here, but I was wrong. I just need time to work through a few things. I will deal with Ryan tomorrow."  
  
"Please tell me it was not with a witness…"  
  
"No, jackass," she said, cutting him off. "It had nothing to do with a witness. I'm done with this conversation." She turned away to finish her drink. "Order another round."  
  
"Sure thing, Mary," Don said, trying to piece together the scant pieces of information she had given him.  
  
Seeing that he was not going to get anything else out of her tonight, he flagged down the bartender. By God, they were drinking tonight. He was not going to let her face Ryan by herself but did not see the reason to bring it up right then. Mary had a right to fight her own battles, his job was simply to offer backup and he intended to do just that come morning.  
  
  
Fourteen. Power Struggle  
  
  
"Inspector Shannon, may I trouble you to step into my office?" Chief Inspector Ryan O'Neill asked, his eyes burning holes in Mary's back. The tension rolling off him was palpable. It was painfully obvious to anyone who knew the Chief for as long as Don: the deliberately polite tone was forced, nothing but a tool for controlling his boiling rage.  
  
"Coming, Chief Inspector O'Neill," she said, turning away from her monitor to look at the boss. "Keep your pants on." Her voice was laced with sarcasm.  
  
Ryan was in no mood to entertain her snarky comments. When she made no move to leave her chair, he raised his voice. "My office, Shannon. Now."  
  
"Come on, Mary," Don said, getting up and walking over to her desk. "Don't give Ryan grief when you're mad at me."  
  
They had returned from lunch no more than half an hour ago. Don dragged her out to restore the delicate balance of their partnership he had upset the night before at the bar. She had stayed for another round, but their conversation fizzled out after his million-dollar question. He should have known better than to ask if she had gotten involved with a witness. The least he could do now was to diffuse the situation with the Chief.  
  
"I'm not mad at you, dimwit. Should I be?" Mary said, rising from her chair.  
  
"Never mind," Don said, pushing off her desk. "Let's get this over with."  
  
Ryan stared at his Inspectors trying to put together pieces of the puzzle he was missing. Don knew something he did not. Being kept in the dark was disconcerting. McQueen's words turned out to be prophetic: he had told O'Neill that once Mary joined the team the number of successful witness cases would increase at the expense of his control over his people. But while McQueen was willing to tolerate that, he was not. Rules applied to everyone equally. He had to make Mary understand that. He felt his anger receding, as it always did when the time came to put the plan he had devised into action. It was a tough call to make, but he felt strongly it was in the best interests of all parties involved.  
  
Ryan let Mary pass him at the threshold to his office, but stopped Don from following them inside.  
  
"Inspector Saunders, if I need to talk to you as well, I will let you know. Right now I'd like to have a word with your partner privately."  
  
Ryan expected Don to interfere if he was given a chance, so he kept his tone formal to prevent it from happening. Don had taken to Mary despite her gruff exterior and would go out on a limb for her without a second thought. His loyalty would put Don in the middle of the situation that had nothing to do with him.  
  
Don walked back to his desk, frowning. He watched his boss settle across from Mary and give her a folder. It had to be the formal complaint filed by Brad Lipton. Whatever Ryan had in mind, did not bode well for her… or their partnership. Don rarely questioned authority, but he would give Ryan a piece of his mind once they put this nasty business behind them. He took an issue with Ryan's decision to exclude him from the debriefing.  
  
Mary skimmed through the file Ryan handed her. There was nothing there she had not seen before during her career in the Marshals Service. She had had her fair share of witnesses who complained to Stan about her unorthodox methods. She was not afraid of getting in their faces if they deserved it. Stan had brushed most of the complaints off, but showed her some paperwork he had let slip through the cracks.  
  
"Give me a break, Ry. The guy deserved everything that he got and then some," she said, tossing the file back on the desk.  
  
The look on Ryan's face told her that he was not going to let this slide as Stan did while she was in Albuquerque.  
  
"Really, Mary? This is your excuse? The witness deserved to be flattened against the wall in a wristlock for complaining about the place of his next relocation?"  
  
When Ryan looked at her, Mary noticed he was exhausted. The laugh lines were more pronounced and the eyes were weary. He hated going through this with her, she realized. He was trying to exert control, which she repeatedly undermined. Stan would not give a damn about something like this, but, she had to acknowledge, Ryan was not Stan. This was about showing her who was the boss. She shrugged, deciding to humor him.  
  
"Not for nothing, Ry, but it's their fourth relocation. What a waste of…"  
  
"Not your call, Mary," he said, interrupting her. He pinched the bridge of his nose, preparing for another one of her rants.  
  
"Uh-huh. It's not my call whether this dipshit gets relocated again when he is being careless about his life. But if you think I will sit idly while he puts not only his safety, but the safety of three other people in jeopardy including my partner's and my own…"  
  
Ryan emphatically stopped her diatribe.  
  
"You sprained his wrist to make a point. He pissed you off, I get it. Your reaction worried me though. It was over the top," he said, pushing another file across his desk.  
  
Mary recognized Ryan's attempt to placate her. There was no doubt in her mind that he was about to drop a bomb.  
  
"Allison has agreed that no reprimand will be added to your personnel file as long you complete a twelve-week anger management program. You are on desk duty effective immediately and for the duration of the program. You'll be reinstated to active status once you are cleared by the counselor."  
  
The chair she sat in moments earlier fell back against the glass partition as she leapt up.  
  
"Desk duty? Anger management? Are you both out of your mother-humping minds?"  
  
"Mary, this is for your own good."  
  
"You are certifiable if you think…"  
  
Ryan interrupted her again, purposely keeping his voice devoid of emotion.  
  
"I'll take your badge."  
  
"You'll what?"  
  
Mary leaned into his personal space, glaring at him furiously. All thoughts of staying rational were forgotten.  
  
"You wouldn't dare!"  
  
"Watch me," he said, rising from his chair to tower over her. "Allison is on board with it."  
  
Mary gripped his desk for purchase and felt her heart rate spike as soon as she heard him mention Marshal Pearson's name.  
  
"Well, of course she is! That… amateur has had it in for me since…"  
  
Ryan did not let her finish, his determination to force her to face her demons unwavering. Having gone through a similar program himself, he was a strong believer in its effectiveness. He hated that it had come down to this, but incontrollable anger got people hurt or killed in this line of work.  
  
"Mary, your inability to control your anger is not doing you any favors. You have to reel it in or give up your badge."  
  
Mary was tempted to slam her badge down on his desk, but the reality of the situation had hit her as Ryan laid out the benefits of the program. If they took away her job, what would she have left? She transferred from her friends and family, burning her bridges… She left everyone she loved behind to move on and build a new life. She had to face it; if they took away the job, she would have nothing but an empty apartment in an alien city. She stared back at him defiantly, but the will to fight had drained out of her. She felt her knees giving out from under her and a lump forming in her throat, but she refused to fall apart in his office.  
  
"I'll go through the program," she said, turning away. Before making it to the door, she looked back and added softly, "I'm taking the rest of the day. I'll see you on Monday."  
  
Don watched his partner walk out of the Chief's office. He could have sworn that Mary wobbled by the door jamb, and kept herself from falling by grabbing onto it to steady herself. He must have been seeing things, he thought. It took more than a reprimand to shake her up. His eyes followed her as she made a beeline for her desk, collected her jacket and messenger bag and headed for the door. Only then did he hurry after her.  
  
"Mary, where are you going?" he asked, startled by the blank look in her eyes.  
  
"Home," she said flatly.  
  
"What happened? What did he tell you?"  
  
"Nothing to worry about, Donnie. You'll have a new partner on Monday."  
  
"Wait, what?" he said, pushing into the elevator behind her. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Are you dumb or deaf? Remember, neither is considered acceptable for a decorated U.S. Marshal such as yourself."  
  
"Spell it out for me, Mary. I am in no mood for your mind games."  
  
"Well, join the fucking club. I am riding the desk for the next twelve weeks or until I am cleared by an anger management counselor," she said as they walked out of the building.  
  
"Goddamn it!" He rammed the lamp post on the sidewalk with his fist, shook out his hand, and then raised it to study his flat knuckles. After years of Judo drills at the gym, his fist did not even bruise.  
  
"I can't believe Ryan would blow this thing out of proportion."  
  
"Better believe it, Donnie," she said, studying her boots. "Allison is backing him up on this, so if you have any bright ideas… I'm all ears. 'Cause I'm fresh out."  
  
Don noticed they were being watched by a tall man leaning against a truck illegally parked across from the building entrance. He was within earshot of their conversation. The man seemed oddly familiar, but Don could not place where he had seen him before. He was going to point the man out to Mary, but then decided against it. She did not need to deal with this on top of everything Ryan had laid on her. Don took out his phone intent on snapping a picture so he could look into it after Mary went home.  
  
"I'll talk to Ry," he said, refocusing his attention on her. "He's being unreasonable."  
  
"Look, I am beat. I am going to…" she said, turning to see what had caught her partner's eye. Shocked to see Marshall at the curb, she froze midsentence.  
  
"Get in, Mare. I'll take you where you need to go. You're in no shape to drive," Marshall said, opening the passenger door of his rented truck. He heard enough of their conversation to discern Mary had gotten into some kind of trouble.  
  
"Marshall, what are you doing here?" she asked, unable to think clearly.  
  
First the conversation with Ryan, then rehashing it to Don and now Marshall showing up at the building was too much for her to handle at once.  
  
"I take it, you two know each other?" Don asked, putting away his phone. The expression of concern over Mary's distress and her astonished reaction to the man's appearance did not escape him.  
  
Marshall extended his hand in a greeting.  
  
"Inspector Marshal Marshall Mann. Mary's old partner."  
  
"Donald Saunders. Mary's new partner," Don said, shaking the offered hand. "You realize you said Marshal twice?"  
  
Mary rolled her eyes, knowing what would come next.  
  
"That's also my name," Marshall said with a smile, anticipating her eye roll. His smile faded when he noticed her body language. Mary was close to unraveling. He had to get her away from here.  
  
"Looks like you're in good hands, Mary. I'll see you on Monday," Don said, nodding to Marshall. "It was nice meeting you."  
  
He saw the way Marshall looked at Mary. The phrase she uttered at the bar about mixing personal and professional life now made much more sense. They did not need a spectator for their conversation. He left them on the sidewalk without waiting for either to acknowledge his departure.  
  
"Mare, get in the truck. Please," Marshall said, holding open the door. When she silently obeyed, it told him better than any words could how she felt. He rounded the truck and got into the driver's seat.  
  
Turning to face her and barely restraining the urge to pull her close, he said, "Just tell me what you need, Mare."  
  
  
Fifteen. Second Chances  
  
  
They sat on a bench by the Reflecting Pool in silence for a while. Mary had finished her coffee and tossed it into a trashcan a few feet away. A million unanswered questions swirled in her mind, that she knew not how to ask. She watched the clouds float by on the darkening sky and their reflection on the surface of the water, unable to decide what to tell Marshall. Since getting into his truck she was only able to ask him to take her to the National Mall and he did not press her for an explanation. _"It is so like him,"_ she thought. _"Give and not ask for anything in return."_  
  
The dusk started to descend and Mary's gaze lingered on the path lights as they were coming on triggered by photocells. She was really happy to see Marshall. He had always kept her grounded, her safe harbor in a storm that was her life. _"What is he doing here?"_ She felt something stir inside: a faint hope that they could repair a friendship she had broken.  
  
The trees were gently swaying to the wind. It was getting chilly. She wrapped her arms around her midsection wishing it were his arms hugging her instead. She yearned for comfort she had always felt in his embrace, but feared she had lost the right to ask him for it ever again. _"Not that I'd asked then…he'd known what I needed without my telling him."_ No sooner than the thought had crossed her mind, she felt the warmth of his arm on her shoulder. The contact was so light that she could break away if she wanted by simply leaning back. She inched closer and buried her face in his shoulder as her arms wrapped around his waist. His other arm circled her in and his chin came to rest on top of her head.  
  
"Tell me what happened?" he whispered into her hair.  
  
Mary stifled a sob and burrowed her face deeper into the fabric of his jacket. The familiar scent of him enveloped her as a comforting down blanket on a chilly morning, thawing out emotions she had frozen deep inside for months.  
  
"I'm riding the desk and enrolling in anger management program," she said softly. She pulled back, wiping tears out of her eyes, and relayed the conversation she had had with her boss earlier.  
  
"You know he was bluffing, right?" Marshall asked, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.  
  
"I'm in no a position to call it, Marshall. The job is all I have left…" She sighed.  
  
"Mare…" She had managed to render him verbally impotent again with a simple statement he should have been able to rebuff in less than a second and could not. This morning, when he had left his house in Albuquerque to catch the flight that got him into Dulles by two in the afternoon, all he could think of was what he would say to her when he got there. He was running through possible scenarios of their meeting during the flight, at the car rental counter and the Club Quarters Hotel check-in. His mind had gone into overdrive imagining their conversation and its outcome. But when he saw her outside of the building, shattered, all his careful planning had gone out the window. He slipped into the role of her keeper seamlessly as if these last seven months did not happen. All he wanted was to take away her pain.  
  
"Why are you here, Marshall?" she asked, bringing him back out of his reverie.  
  
"I came for you, Mare," he said, deciding to leave his declaration for another time, promising himself to come clean to her before going back to Albuquerque on Monday. "I need my best friend. I've missed you, Mare."  
  
"I've missed you too…" she whispered, unable to trust her voice.  
  
"Mare, I don't know about you, but I'm freezing. How about we get something to eat and talk somewhere warm?"  
  
She nodded, reluctantly untangling herself from him. "We can go to my place," she offered. "It's not much, but there's a decent burger joint close by."  
  
They walked into her barren apartment after having dinner at the pub she suggested. Marshall's heart clenched at the sight. She had matched her outside to what he had felt inside for the last seven months. He hurt just thinking about her having to return here night after night by herself with no one to offer any solace.  
  
"Hey, where did you go?" Mary asked, noticing the change in his demeanor. She had gotten so used to seeing the place like this, she did not think twice about the way it looked. She had told him she did not put any time into making it into a home. Chiding herself for not preparing him better, she said, "Marshall, I told you it wasn't much… but it suffices."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mare," he said, regretting his inability to reel in his emotions. "I guess I wasn't expecting it to be quite this empty."  
  
"Yeah, well, I didn't plan to stay in D.C.," she said, reluctant to admit that she had no idea what she was doing with her life.  
  
Tossing her head back, Mary walked into the kitchen, yanked a bottle of scotch and two glasses out of a cabinet over the sink and poured two shots. Marshall made his way to her side by the counter. She raised her glass.  
  
"Cheers, partner." She downed her shot. He followed suit, and took a bottle from her hands to pour another.  
  
"What are we drinking to, Marshall?"  
  
"Second chances," he said, noticing the slip of her tongue. Wondering if she realized what she had said.  
  
"Care to elaborate?" she asked, dreading what he would say next. If he asked her to return to Albuquerque and be his partner again, she would not have it in her to refuse. But watching him make a life with the cheerleader would certainly drive her to the edge. She wanted him in her life, she just did not know if she could share him.  
  
"I love you, Mare," he said, watching her eyes widen in response.  
  
"Come again?" she stuttered. "What about your engagement? What about Abigail?"  
  
"A charade. The ring, the engagement… everything. Apparently, I'm an expert in fooling everyone including myself into thinking I can love anyone else but you."  
  
"But… Abigail?"  
  
"Finally saw through it a few weeks ago and called me on it. It's over."  
  
"What am I, a consolation prize, Marshall?"  
  
"You're not listening to me, Mare. It's always been you. I know you don't feel the same, but I had to tell you…" His voice trailed off, his resolve wavering. He should have kept his mouth shut. They were making progress; she was contemplating their partnership again and now he ruined it.  
  
Mary looked at him, as if, for the first time in ten years, allowing herself to accept what she had known all along. Marshall was in love with her. Did she dare to tell him he was wrong? That she had known for some time that she felt the same? Instead she reached up, bringing his face down to hers, and kissed him slowly; hesitant to pressure him into something he did not want.  
  
Mary broke away, whispering, "I love you too," against his lips and he responded fervently, ready to take whatever she was willing to offer. Regaining coherent thought, Marshall pulled back.  
  
"Mare, we shouldn't rush this. Too much is hanging in the balance."  
  
She pouted, but admitted he was right. This had been a rollercoaster year. If they had a chance at making it, they had to take it slowly. They both needed time to heal emotionally and figure out how to salvage their careers. They had talked through most of the night, and drifted to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, tangled up, but fully clothed.  
  
After waking up in a few hours, while Marshall went to the corner diner, Mary dialed her old Chief. Waiting for him to pick up the line, she was nervously tracing the edge of her coffee mug and staring out of the window.  
  
"Stan? Hi, Stan. This is Mary." She paused, unsure how to broach the subject. By the sound of his voice she could tell that he was happy to hear her voice, yet there was something else that lingering in his tone that she could not quite place.  
  
"What if I told you that I made a mistake?" she asked, hoping he would take the hint and run with it. But Stan did not.  
  
Mary ended the call and downed the remainder of her coffee. She slammed the mug on the counter, as a mix of fear and anger gripped her entire being. She had to pull herself together. She had burdened Marshall with enough of her crap since he had arrived. Mary heard a key in the lock and refilled her cup. _"Get a grip, Shannon,"_ she told herself. _"He has enough problems to deal with, leave him out of yours."_ Marshall walked in carrying a large sack of pancakes from the corner diner. She wordlessly poured him a cup of coffee and sauntered out of the kitchen into the small living area. She had to process what Stan had told her before she could share it with Marshall.  
  
Marshall was laying out the food he had brought from the diner and watching Mary out of the corner of his eye. She stood by the picture window, looking at the street, and mulling over something. He could see tension locking up her shoulders once again. He had trouble figuring out what could have happened in a short time while he was out picking up their breakfast. He decided not to bother with guessing.  
  
"Mare, what's wrong?" he asked, crossing over the kitchen to her side.  
  
She sighed deeply and turned to face him. She was tempted to reach out, seeking reassurance that despite everything that she had put him through, he would still be there for her, but could not take the leap. She folded her arms across her chest instead. She turned away again, unable to maintain eye contact, hating the feeling of vulnerability that overwhelmed her. She would tell him without much more prodding; she just had to keep it together long enough not to breakdown until after he left.  
  
Marshall took in her defensive posture and tear streaked face. Whatever bothered her was bad enough that she was shutting him out again. He took a step closer and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers gently brushed the side of her face and stopped at her chin. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.  
  
"Mare, what happened? Talk to me, Sunshine," he said softly, encouraged by the lack of a snide remark in response to his gesture. Her eyes flew open, as his thumb traced her jaw. "Whatever it is, Mare, just tell me."  
  
"I called Stan," she said, her voice cracking. Not knowing if she had it in her to continue, she stared into Marshall's eyes watching for his reaction. She could only see concern for her in his deep baby blues. If she allowed it, she could probably drown in their depths. _"He loves me. I have to tell him."_ She reminded herself. She leaned away from him and took a sip of her lukewarm coffee before continuing.  
  
"I called Stan to tell him that I had made a mistake transferring out of Albuquerque," she said, looking at the street again. "I asked him if I could transfer back."  
  
"Oh?" The source of Mary's anxiety was now clear. She did not need to tell him Stan's answer. There was no way she could have known that his case load had largely been redistributed between new Inspectors when he took the assignment in Chicago. And even though he had turned down the permanent transfer before coming to D.C., he did not commit to staying in Albuquerque. He should have told her that to spare her the unpleasant conversation with Stan.  
  
"He told me that there is nothing he can do. I cannot return to Albuquerque, Marshall," Mary said, choking back a sob. "He will speak to U.S. Marshal Robbins about transferring someone out, but it's a crapshoot."  
  
"Mare, you don't have to go back to Albuquerque."  
  
"What do you mean? Don't you think it's going to be hard to have a relationship if you are there and I am in D.C?"  
  
"Let's just say you were not alone in making poor judgment calls lately. I've done a pretty damn good job in that department myself," he said with a shrug. "I can transfer out."  
  
"But you love Albuquerque," she said, studying him, puzzled by his admission. Marshall still had not told her much about his life in the last seven months.  
  
"I've learned that I don't love it nearly as much when you aren't there with me," he said, stepping closer.  
  
Mary felt butterflies flutter in her stomach. Marshall's hands were resting on her shoulders and a shiver went down her spine as his fingers slid down her forearms, rubbing gently to ease away her anxiety.  
  
"Promise to talk to me before making any life-altering decisions in the future?" he asked, leaning in to look into her eyes.  
  
"Marshall, you know me. I…"  
  
Her voice trailed off. She really did not know if she could promise him something like that. She had always dealt with her problems by running away from them. _"Yeah, and that had worked out so well for you, Mary,"_ a small voice in her head offered. She shook her head.  
  
"I will probably try to revert to my old ways… But I promise."  
  
"That's all I ask, Sunshine," he said, drawing her into a tight embrace.  
  
Mary hated the apprehension that she could not shake off despite Marshall's reassurance. She thought she could undo what she had put them through by calling Stan, but once again she had been mistaken. She had painted them both into a corner. She was benched for at least twelve weeks in an anger management program. What Chief in a right mind would want an Inspector with that kind of baggage and reputation? Her efforts to transfer out would most likely fall flat.  
  
"What are we going to do, Marshall?" she whispered into his shirt.  
  
"Trust me, Mare. We'll figure it out."  
  
  
~The End~


End file.
